Strictly Protocol
by Soule Rellim
Summary: Cassandra Harker is a young, up-and-coming psychiatrist eager to begin her career at the infamous Arkham Asylum. But when she's confronted with the notorious Killer Croc in her first session, she sees something in him which no one else does.
1. Chapter 1

"Keep up! This isn't exactly the kind of place you should dawdle in, Miss Greene." The woman in front of me, Dr. Hirsch, was walking briskly down the corridor, her patience just as tightly wound as the hair on her head. I regarded her in an alert manner—she was a veteran of this urban jungle and I knew by the way she carried herself that she was confident in her safety. "As an intern, you'll definitely be tried and tested within this facility. I hope you last long. Not many of our trainees do."

And I knew it; several of my classmates had applied for internships at the asylum and many had not lasted longer than two weeks due to the types of patients they met with. I pitied them because, as sure as I do, they knew what they were getting into—why else go through years of college to earn a Ph. D in psychology? To me its a dismal waste of time to work your way up, get into the establishment, and then turn-tail the minute things got tough.

No, I'm not the ignorant type who thinks operations run fine and dandy over here on the island. I'm a naturally cautious person who relies on the SOPs of a place as law-oriented as Arkham. In the long run, however, I'm not deluded enough to actually _believe_ the people over here follow the rules; the criminally insane are morally impure and they have a certain way about them. Of course I understand why the guards get rough, but that doesn't mean I condone it.

"Right, so you've seen Arkham North and East. I'm afraid that's going to be it for now; the Penitentiary isn't really safest right now, since we are a bit over capacity here in IT." I assumed she meant the Intensive Treatment building we were currently walking through. "Before we begin your preliminary training, do you have any questions?" Dr. Hirsch maintained a curt facade, obviously tight-lipped. Her lack of make-up lead me to believe her years on the job had molded her into a harsh and possibly bitter person.

"Um," I thought for a moment, thinking back on the details of my tour, "no, I believe I'm all set."

As we exited Intensive Treatment, Dr. Hirsch led us down a sidewalk towards the Mansion in Arkham East.

"Your work as a psychologist in this facility will not be easy, I can guarantee that," judging by the gloomy tones in her voice, this was going to be an exciting conversation. "Going by what your paperwork says, you've gone through an extensive amount of preparation already. Is that correct?" Dr. Hirsch asked as she leafed through a packet of papers on her clipboard.

"Yes, so far I've been through some training with a few of the nurses," I replied in a small voice.

"Then I have no idea why we should be headed towards the Mansion—you're interviews and preliminary training is complete, I see that you've put in your minimum sixty hours. Perhaps you may even have your first session tonight with one of the patients..." I feel ashamed to admit it, but at the mention of my first session I let the sound of Dr. Hirschs' voice trial off as I thought of slightly more important things. My line of sight roamed the grounds on the way back up to Intensive Treatment—guards armed to the nines walked along the sidewalks and in guard towers. I knew I had nothing to fear, but short of the Batman showing up, my nerves were tough to calm. Without thought, I interrupted Dr. Hirsch with an irrelevant question.

"Are there any serious security breaches?"

"How do you mean?"

"As in... inmates escaping? Have there ever been any riots?" I felt sheepish and embarrassed instantly; that I would even _think_ to ask these questions was absurd. After all, I'd already been through the training session on security and safety precautions.

Dr. Hirsch scoffed loudly, "If you're trying to ask whether you'll see the Batman, I suppose I can tell you the truth: you'll see him, but rarely. He makes an appearance every so often to check on things and keep lines of communication open. In fact, he was here three weeks ago."

We had reached the main entrance to IT and the guards nodded for us to continue inside; Dr. Hirsch scanned her ID, beckoned me through the metal detector, and bid me follow her to the East Wing. Once in her office, I felt safe enough to let out the breath I had been holding.

Sitting comfortably at her desk, Dr. Hirsch went through my folder again. "Miss Greene, if you are comfortable I would endorse your first session tonight." Startled, I looked up at Dr. Hirschs' calm expression.

"Y-you will observe?" I felt the beginnings of an adrenaline rush and began to shiver slightly. Whether it was a result of fear or excitement was hidden from me.

"Of course. The particular patient I have scheduled isn't someone I would feel comfortable for anyone to interview alone, nevermind an intern."

"Who did you have in mind?"

"His name is Waylon Jones, have you heard of him?" When I shook my head 'no' she continued, "That's just as well. He has a bit of a skin condition and he doesn't appear at first glance to be human. I don't want you to be frightened, Miss Greene, but his appearance isn't pleasant and he displays cannibalistic tendencies. We've had him at the facility for over three years but he doesn't seem to be interested in making progress. As for his diagnosis, we've determined him to be a homicidal sociopath."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, cursing my absolute rotten luck. My first session and she couldn't take it easy on me? Assign me to a mediocre basket case who killed his entire family because his toaster told him to do it—anything, I wasn't asking for much. But a meager, deformed _serial_ killer who was hostile even on his good days? I would have run for the bathroom and cried if I'd know where it was. "May I view his file?"

Dr. Hirsch seemed surprised that I had asked, but relented and began to search through her file cabinet. After a few seconds of rifling through the cabinet labeled 'I – L' she retrieved a relatively thin portfolio and handed it to me across the desk. "I don't know what you hope to find. Like I said, he's definitely not one to help his own cause."

"How was he brought to the island?"

"After a series of brutal slaughters, the Batman tracked him down and dumped him off over here for treatment. Whatever you do, don't mention his capture or the Dark Knight in your session. Once Mr. Jones gets riled up we have to trigger the pacification collar to keep him under control. And I do not want your first session to be a complete wash, its a little depressing."

"He has no picture on file?"

"We can't get him to remain civil long enough to take his picture. For whatever reason—his appearance, his temperament, his grudges against us—he won't let a camera near him."

I knitted my brows in contemplation, "And you allow that?"

Dr. Hirsch chuckled. "Forgive the laughter, Miss Greene, but what choice do we have? Even without a picture in that file, it should give you enough details as to why we give him plenty of space and toleration."

I peered back down at the file on my lap and scoured over his stats, marveling at the listings for height and weight. Nevermind his psychological issues, he was dangerous enough going on physical characteristics alone. At 500-something pounds and over seven feet tall he was a force I wasn't sure I could withstand. "How does he get along with the other patients?"

"He doesn't, he has his own cell down in the sewer system."

"The sewers?" To say I was appalled was an understatement. "How can that be sanitary? And the severe isolation? What kind of organization is this?"

"Miss Greene, I understand your feelings but in these matters you are ignorant. Mr. Jones is arguably our most hostile inmate and severe isolation to a habitat in which he is comfortable is a really small price to pay. Once you meet him and have the ample opportunity to converse with him, you will understand more completely."

"When's the session?"

"In about twenty minutes," she said, glancing at her wristwatch.

"Should we be going then?"

"Going where?"

"To the interview rooms?"

"Due to the fact that we are low on funding, we don't have central interview rooms. Essentially, the sessions are held within the resident doctors' offices. You didn't cover this in training?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "I did, it must have slipped my mind." I let my eyes wander anxiously around the small room, worried about who would sit where and whether or not 'observing' meant participating at all in the session. As I glanced over the patient's file for the last time, my eyes caught sight of some fairly interesting information: his previous doctors had all written rude, snobbish comments about how uncooperative he was, how much they all wished he'd just turn up dead one day, and—most importantly—the absolute raw danger of his presence. "Dr. Hirsch?" I asked, looking up from the folder. "Where shall I sit?"

"Well," she began as she steepled her fingers, "I'm going to ask that you call me Nancy; I don't see any reason why we need to use formalities." For all her harsh manners and unforgiving features, her smile was at least genuine and friendly. "Now, about seating arrangements. You may have my chair behind the desk," she got up and relocated to a chair somewhat in the corner behind the desk to the right. "Mr. Jones may sit in the chair in front of the desk."

I moved into the ornate chair behind the desk and silently prayed I would make it out of this session alive. Eventually, I knew this would happen but certainly not on my first night and I wasn't particularly looking forward to a possibly dismal first session. I wanted to knock it out of the ballpark and be spectacular—show the people at Arkham that I was a professional and an asset. I wanted to help rehabilitate people who are held prisoner in their own minds. Of course I knew that one failed session wouldn't off-set those goals but, for me, success is a point of view. And mine is the only one that counts.

Several minutes later I heard noises coming from further down the hallway, and my heartbeat picked up pace in, well, a heartbeat.

"He's on his way," Dr. Hirsch said idly as she leafed through yet another folder. Initially I was shocked by her calmed collectivity. But, of course, she was used to this; she knew there would be two armed guards in the room and at least four more posted outside in the hallway. And she knew—from experience—what to expect. I only _wish_ I knew.

In truth, I could hear him before I even saw him. His footsteps crashed loudly on the thin carpet that ran the length of the wooden floor, his breathing was loud and even, and chains rattled with each step he took. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and an intense wave of serenity washed over me to the point that I could regain most of my composure. Oh, but I knew the minute I opened my mouth either nothing would come out or I would stumble over simple words. I'd look like an illiterate little child; shit just happens.

Nothing I could have done would have prepared me for the sight of Waylon Jones despite all of the warnings from the staff members. He was massive—the breadth of his shoulders was so wide he had to duck and sidestep through the door frame just to make it into the room—and his eyes were such a bright golden-yellow they seemed to _glow_. Dr. Hirsch and the rest of the on-sight nurses were right, even though I wish they'd been lying to me; Mr. Jones' skin was a pallid green color and appeared to be textured with shiny scales nearly resembling a crocodiles'. He had the complete physical appearance—minus the skin tone—of a normal human male. His face wasn't even as bad as some of the staff had described. From their descriptions I imagined he had a long snout and monstrous teeth, a slithering forked tongue. His teeth _were_ sharp and pointy, however, and frighteningly so. As childish as it sounds, I hoped that he had them filed and wasn't actually born with that kind of dental work.

After marveling over his sheer height and the size of his arms, I gazed up at his face: it was perfectly human and almost... kind. But that wasn't true, Waylon Jones had more than likely never done a single thing of kindness in his entire life. He had slaughtered entire families and dragged innocent people down into his dwellings for nothing more than food. Without meaning to I cringed and moved further away from the edge of the desk.

"Yeah, I fucking know how ugly I am. So you ain't gotta try and morph yourself through the wall," he said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. It was shockingly soothing coming from him.

"I- No, Mr. Jones, I am sorry. Um, I- uh... Shall we begin the session?" Sweat broke out on my forehead and my hands trembled as I reached to open his file on the desk. When he didn't respond I looked over at Dr. Hirsch for reassurance—she had her nose buried in a file, her face concealed.

"What, you think you can figure out why I'm fucked in the head? Is that it? Don't waste your time. And don't take me lightly," he demanded. I looked up at him timidly and his eyes narrowed. His pupils were vertical slits.

"And why would I do that?" I was pleased to hear my voice come out evenly and with a shred of confidence. "Why do you think I would take you lightly?"

"These fuckwads with the guns, these chains, and this shock collar," he explained, rattling his shackles. "Might as well not even be here at all—I could kill you all in seconds. And I'd start with you," he said as he glared pointedly at me.

The guard standing on the patient's right side brought his rifle up and jarred Waylon in the temple with the butt of his gun. "Watch your mouth, animal."

"Stop that!" I yelled angrily at the guard. "This is my session, and if you cause unnecessary bodily harm to my patient again I'll have you replaced. Is that clear?" As I spoke I added just the right amount of menace and command to get my point across. Waylon's deep rumbling voice filled the office and I sat down, immediately embarrassed by my lack of control.

"Ma'am, with all due respect he threatened to kill us," said the other guard in defense of his partner.

"And so what if he followed through with it, you're going to provoke him by throwing the first punch? Please do not interfere again unless I request your assistance." I glared unwaveringly at the two men until they nodded and returned their own gazes back to Mr. Jones. "So, Mr. Jones, how are you feeling today?"

"Hungry."

I cleared my throat, "We can get you something to eat, if you'd like. But I was referring to how you feel mentally."

"You're reading my file."

"Yes, and I'm sorry to hear that you don't wish to make any progress. Don't you want to be happy?"

He completely disregarded my question. "You're aware of my eating habits."

It was a statement of fact, not a question and I instantly tensed. The temperature in the room rose and I started to tremble again; I was aware of Dr. Hirschs' gaze. "I am."

"Then whaddaya say, doc? Can I eat Ramirez?" As the same guard prepared himself to pistol whip my patient again, I assumed that he was the person Mr. Jones was referring to.

"Mr. Ramirez, lower your weapon or I'll have you removed from the room," I threatened as I stared him down. When Ramirez grudgingly let his semi-automatic drop to a resting position I turned to address the patient.

"This is too fucking easy," Waylon said, shaking his head.

"What is?"

"This," he said as he gestured to the whole room with his shackled hands. "I _eat_ people, so many people. And I don't stop at men—I've killed women, and children. Yet you're sticking your neck on the line to keep these gun-toting pansies from beating me half to shit. I mean, what the _fuck_?"

In all honesty I had no idea what to say to him after that. I sought to rehabilitate him and to get him back on his feet in the real world. But, like so many people had told me, he really didn't want it. Waylon was a full-blooded gangster and there was absolutely no way I could attempt to deny that. I floundered for the right thing to say.

"Speechless? Yeah, I would think so," Waylon said, his narrowed eyes almost kind. "You can't help me. No one can."

"Only if you don't want us to," I said immediately with some measure of rekindled hope. Each of the guards around the room scoffed and chuckled, apparently in on some joke about which I remained ignorant.

"I don't," he said flatly.

"And why is that?"

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" His voice rose several octaves and I jumped back from the desk.

"I-"

"Yeah, I think you do. And judging by your presence here you have some kind of degree, so you're not stupid either. What do you think my future looks like? How many years do you think they'll put me away? How many years do you think I have left? Subtract the two."

When I remained silent, the patient smirked and sat back in his seat. I looked at him pointedly and studied his face more closely, losing myself in his sharply-angled features. His nose was broad and masculine, the lips below it full and tinted with a soft pink. My eyes still trained on his lips, I was shocked to see a forked black tongue dart out and back in the blink of an eye although it wasn't thin like I expected, but nearly human. The lines of his jaw were strong and as he clenched his teeth, the muscles in his temples and cheeks flexed powerfully. Timidly, I peered into his eyes, hoping they were looking elsewhere in the room. They weren't. Blazing pits the color of liquid gold looked right back at me and didn't seem to waver. My senses zeroed in on his presence in the room and I noticed the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the soft sound of chains as he shifted a foot, the quick movement of his eyelids as they blinked.

"So you'd rather rot down there in that sewer, alone?" I patiently awaited the answer of his deep, grumbling voice.

"Where else."

"Well that's horrible. I'd ask you about your childhood and how you learned to be so cruel to yourself, but that might be the wrong question for the moment," I said, purposefully trying to provoke him into talking about _something_. Anything to make some progress.

"I wouldn't tell you a fucking thing," he growled.

"Its your choice but I want you to be prepared for me to ask the same thing every time we meet." I glanced up at the clock mounted to the wall to the left. "And since you've managed to waste an hour and half trying to play coy, I guess that will be tomorrow. See you then, Mr. Jones."

Of a sudden, the patient jumped from his seat as he roared. I screamed and jumped up from my chair with the instinct to bolt, but the collar around Waylon's neck zapped to life with a buzzing electric shock. He shot up straight where he stood and his hands jumped up to his neck, tearing at the collar.

"Get the fuck down on the ground you beast!" Ramirez shouted as he rammed the butt of his rifle into the patient's back over and over again. "Get down and I might turn the collar off."

"I'm going to eat you alive!" Jones bellowed as he was forced down on his stomach. The other guard, Collins, released the patient's wrist shackles and refastened them once Jones' hands were roughly placed behind his back. I noticed the remote to the collar gripped in Ramirez's hand, his thumb jammed down onto the stun button.

"Stop it! You're hurting him!" I frantically waved my hands for Ramirez to stop, but Dr. Hirsch rushed to my side.

"Miss Greene! This is the pacification system—your patient resorted to violence, this is protocol," she explained.

"Protocol? This is torture!"  
>"I will kill all of you!" Waylon screamed as two more guards rushed in and hauled him to his feet. They muscled him through the doorway and as I watched Ramirez continuously hit the button to shock the patient, I truly felt like crying. How could I help? How could anyone help at all? Waylon Jones didn't feel like getting help and he pushed the limits against the people who hurt him. He was putting himself through hell for no discernible reason. Despite the obvious fact that he was a ruthless criminal, I desperately wanted to see him happy and safe somewhere. But he still terrified me and I wasn't looking forward to tomorrow's session at all.<p>

When the patient was far enough away that I could no longer hear his roars as the facility's guards dragged him away I plopped down in the nearest chair and sighed.

"I would recommend that you went home, Miss Greene, and got some rest. Tomorrow's session is an early one. I was impressed with your work today—you stirred the patient up somehow. I am interested to see where this goes," Miss Hirsch said as she rested a hand on my shoulder.

At her encouragement I got up from my seat, grabbed my bag, and reached for the doorknob.

"And Miss Greene?"

I paused, the door halfway open, "Yes?"

"Quell your passion for that monster. We don't need another Harley Quinn," her tone was condescending and languid.

I blanched, "I beg your pardon?"

"Keep it in mind, Miss Greene," she waved her hand at me to leave. "You may go now."

Without another word I left the office and left Intensive Treatment as fast as humanly possible, taking the tram down to the docks. I was confused, and not just because of Dr. Hirsch's warning. And I couldn't get off the island fast enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed! :) Read and review?<strong>

**-Soule**


	2. Chapter 2

It was a storming, nasty morning when I awoke the next day and the weather forecast predicted it would remain the same for the rest of the day. I found the rain oddly cheerful and set about getting ready to head to Arkham by setting the coffee pot and jumping in the shower. Today's session, I vowed, would go off without a hitch and I wouldn't get jumpy nerves before I even set foot in Dr. Hirsch's office.

But I couldn't figure out what to wear. Most of my suits were professional and modest, but I was afraid Mr. Jones would see that as pretentious or fake. The skirts I owned were too cheery and didn't fit the season, so I settled on a plain pair of black slacks and an elegant cream-colored top.

As I twirled in front of the mirror, I stopped dead. "I'm just like her," I whispered, touching my face. Dr. Hirsch was right: I fancied my patient. I was just like Quinn. "No. You want to help him, not date him. You can keep this professional and safe." But I wasn't convinced because I knew that I liked to tell myself things if only to settle my mind. Maybe not now, but later I was going to tear my mind apart just trying to sort through all of these crazy neural-stimulants and impulses. Hopefully by the end of the day I wouldn't need a lobotomy.

* * *

><p>"What a dreadful morning, I trust the commute was at least decent?" Dr. Hirsch asked as we walked down the hallways from Secure Transit.<p>

"It was to be expected with the rain I suppose. It brings out the absolute best in people," I said with an ounce of sarcasm.

Dr. Hirsch laughed, "One thing you can't live without—the pure, unadulterated attitude of a busy Gothamite."

"Of course. So how is the patient?"

"After yesterday's pacification fiasco he's suffering some electrical burns around the collar but because of his nature we couldn't treat him even if Mr. Jones was a Code Blue," she sighed. "Its a real shame."

The patients at Arkham were given a color code as a universal language for the level of danger they posed. Blue was the lowest, since many of the staff didn't believe any of them were capable of posing zero threat. Hence the lack of a code green. Code black was the absolute worst and it just so happened to be the level of Mr. Jones. It was mandated that codes red and above had the pacification system equipped at all times for safety measures.

We took our seats and I leafed through a few files of other patients at the asylum while I sipped at my coffee. Thunder rolled outside the window and rain rapped on the glass in a soothing fashion, nearly making me feel completely at home. But it would be a long time coming before I let my guard down around this place, if at all.

Around the time I was regretting the rest of my life, the sounds of Waylon Jones could be heard down the hall as he provoked a scuffle between himself and another patient.

"Oh for Christ sakes, not again," Dr. Hirsch sighed from her corner of the room. "One day—that's all anyone asks."

* * *

><p>"Let him go, Jones! Things aren't going to be pretty if you can't learn to get along with people." I paid no fucking attention to the asshole who spoke. The only thing I cared about was the fucker choking to death in my hands. The buzzing of the collar roared in my ears and I couldn't hear much else, besides the disgusting squeals that came out of the Joker's throat. It stung, the shocks of the collar—pretty damn sure my heart skipped a few beats.<p>

"_Altercation in Secure Transit, code black patient involved. Pacification system activated, shoot-to-kill permission granted._"

"Jones, we aren't fuckin' around, let go of the clown," Ramirez had one hand on the collar's remote and the other wrapped around a fucking dart gun.

Another guard pointed his double-barrel right between my eyes, "I'm going to count to three."

"Fuck. You," I answered, glaring at him. My hold loosened on Joker's neck and his feet kicked desperately at my stomach.

"Put him down and let him go. Last warning," Ramirez said in a low, warning threat.

A door down the hallway burst open and the two bitches from yesterday jumped out. Hirsch looked at me, then at the Joker, sighed, and crossed her arms over her chest in annoyance; the new girl stared wide-eyed and her face drained of color. Joker took advantage of the distraction, rammed his knee into my groin, and I dropped him to the ground.

"Next time!" I screamed after him as he ran away laughing, "I'll rip you limb from limb! You'll f-" Ramirez beat me over the head with his rifle and kicked me to the ground.

"You sick fuck. Stay down and not another word, we'll shoot!"

I growled but otherwise gave up. As I lay there, my face mashed into the ground by Ramirez's muddy boot, I stared down the hall at the doctors and wondered what the fuck they were going to say to me that I hadn't already heard.

_You're not making any progress, Mr. Jones._

_What the fuck's wrong with you, animal?_

_You belong back at the circus you fucking freak._

_You're a sick, disgusting piece of shit Waylon._

"Mr. Ramirez!" The new girl shouted and ran down the hallway towards us. "Get your foot off him!"

I rolled my eyes and waited for whatever was going to happen to just play out. I couldn't imagine what this bitch thought she was doing, but what the fuck ever. No one ever gave a shit about the patients. And if you did, you were new—once you were here long enough, you stopped caring. It wouldn't last long.

"But-"

"I said get your foot off of him. What kind of treatment is this? Violence? Two wrongs don't make a right, Mr. Ramirez. Now get your foot off of him and escort him to Dr. Hirsch's office for his session, please," she said, her tone even and authoritative. The 'please' at the end was almost too fucking cute.

"Scott, you heard her. She's acting doctor of this wing," came Dr. Hirsch and her irritating, scratchy voice.

Ramirez removed his foot and I hefted myself off the floor, easily towering over the guards by a foot. I turned to head towards the office when I almost ran over the new girl. She stood about an inch or two from me and I looked straight down my nose at her, measuring her reactions. "I could fucking crush you," I said.

"I-I..." She stammered, looking down at her hands. "Mr. Jones," she said confidently when she looked up, "if you would follow me to the office, please." She smiled, turned, and walked away. As she did I caught a whiff of her perfume and breathed in deeply, savoring the sweet aroma. It had been years since I'd smelled anything other than the old, damp stink of the asylum—the scent of something feminine was a fucking reprieve.

For the most part, the trip down to her office was about as entertaining as watching someone bleed to death. Nobody said a word and I watched the new girl's tiny frame as she sashayed across the carpeted floor. Yeah, literally swayed her hips. And in a fucking provocative manner. I had no idea if maybe she was just one of those bitches who walked like that all the time or she-. Yeah fucking right. I doubted it was for my benefit anyway—I had nasty green scales for skin and Smith, the guard opposite of Ramirez, looked like the kind of guy a girl like her would be interested in. Someone like that asshole Bruce Wayne.

I huffed when we got to the door to her office and took a deep breath. And a good fucking thing at that. Because if she didn't shock the shit out of me.

* * *

><p>I wasn't crazy. But I knew that Mr. Jones wouldn't be willing to divulge information if that meant it could be used against him. Despite his outward appearance, no matter how gruesome, Waylon Jones had a sensitive soul. I didn't know how I knew it, and I didn't know if I really cared how I knew it, but the fact remained that I did. I was convinced there had been some degree of childhood trauma—some kind of abuse. That was the key. If there was any humanity left in him that could break his hatred and homicidal tendencies it existed in his past.<p>

But the only way I could get anything out of him was to procure a safe and trustworthy environment. With no guards who could spread the word on his weaknesses.

"Smith, Ramirez. If you would wait out here for the duration of the session... ?" I tentatively asked the guards behind Mr. Jones. They traded perplexed expressions and turned to Dr. Hirsch.

"Miss Harker, a word please? In private?" The expression she wore didn't promise much. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her voice was low and reproachful.

"I think Mr. Jones has a greater chance of opening up to us if he isn't shadowed by those two morons, especially Ramirez. Even you have to agree with that; we're out of options Dr. Hirsch. If nothing else works, what have we to lose?"

"Nothing, I suppose, except maybe an arm or two," she said with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"Do you want to give it a shot?" I was desperate—beyond desperate. This had to work.

She smiled, "I'm constantly surprised by your innovative intentions, and you've only been here a week. Let's try it." She turned back towards the guards and the patient. "Mr. Ramirez. You and Mr. Smith may stand watch outside the office with the rest of the men, if that suits you. We will be conducting this session today with total patient confidentiality and you may not be present."

They obviously had things they wanted to say, opinions they were yearning to voice but, without a word, they stood on either side of the office doors in compliance. Mr. Jones followed us inside and seated himself in his chair, dwarfing the room with his enormous size. Timidly, I shut the door and sat down behind the desk.

"Now," I began, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ears, "I hope that with the absence of those men you will be more willing to communicate." I fiddled with the remote to the collar which Smith had slipped into my hands just before I closed the door—I sincerely hoped I wouldn't have to use it. As I set it on the desk I sighed in frustration. Waylon's eyes instantly found the remote and he scowled at it, his lip curling.

"Might wanna keep it handy, I know you white-coat types like to put these shock collars to good use," the patient growled.

"I have no intention of using it," I stated flatly.

He scoffed, "Of course."

"I don't, Mr. Jones. I don't believe that torturing someone is the way to get them to comply."

"You're an idiot. That's the only way to get them to comply."

"And why do you think that?" At my question Mr. Jones leaned over the desk and narrowed his eyes at me, his breathing perfectly even.

"Because threatening to cut off fingers is the only way to get people to tell the truth. And before you ask how I _know_ or why I _think_ that way, its because I know first hand, I've done it," he spat scathingly.

"For what purpose would you do those things?" It frightened me that I wasn't sure whether I was more disgusted or mildly interested.

Waylon leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. "I can't figure out whether you're naive or just playing some kind of fucked up game."

"Why did you attack the Joker?" I asked flatly.

The patient's eyes flashed at me, "Harassment."

"He harassed you?"

"Yeah. What? You got a hearing problem?"

"No, just clarifying. How did he harass you, did he touch you? Say something offensive?"

"He walked past me in the hall and said 'later alligator'."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Why in the fuck would I be sarcastic."

"I wasn't sure if you were playing mind games with me," I said truthfully.

"I don't do that shit, that's Scarecrow. Fucker got outta here a month ago and didn't take me with him. You'd think he would, right? But he chose Bane."

"Are you and Mr. Crane close?"

"No."

"And you were... Hurt? By his rejection?"

"No. But I thought he trusted me more than that drug addict."

"Does trust mean a lot to you?"

I understood immediately that my inquiry was completely overstepping unspoken, but entirely-present boundaries. The patient glared at me for what seemed like hours and I shrank back in my chair. Was this the part where I prayed to God for mercy for my stupidity? Was this the time to start crying because I'd actually requested that the guards—the guys with the guns—stand _outside_?

"Yeah, it does," his voice was unusually calm, but still retained its menace.

I decided to drop the topic altogether rather than add fuel to Mr. Jones' fire. "I'll stay away from the subject of your childhood, but what about the period of time before you immersed yourself in the criminal lifestyle?"

He broke into a raucous laughter and seeing him smile was almost worth the humiliation of being laughed at.

"What's so funny?"

"You."

I blushed crimson and looked down at my hands. Me? Of course I'd be laughed at—I was a prim and proper, white collar girl rooting around in the minds of the dregs of society. Even _I_ would laugh at myself if I had the chance to look at my situation properly. "I-uh... Why?"

Mr. Jones sobered from his hearty chuckling and his eyes rested on me with intensity. "You like to talk as if you're superior, to show me how educated you are."

"That's not-"

"Yeah fucking right. I know what you think."

"You do? Enlighten me, Mr. Jones," I said as bluntly as possible. He could sit around and mope all he wanted but I wasn't about to let him talk down to me. And I wasn't going to let him come up with preconception about what I thought and what I did.

He seemed taken aback by my aggression. "You're just like all the others. You think I'm a stupid animal, I know you do. No, shut the fuck up, don't ask me another question—I'm not finished talking. Since this is my session and you want me to talk about fucking feelings, here goes. I know what I look like and I know it ain't normal. I also know that people have no fucking clue whether I'm human or animal, so save all your pretentious bullshit about the 'comprehensions of society'. And I know why you use you're big words and your fancy talk; you're trying to see if I know what the fuck you're talking about. I do. So lets see if you understand what I have to say: go fuck yourself," he said furiously, his eyes burning with the intent to kill.

"I don't agree with you," I said as I narrowed my eyes.

He sat back in his chair and sighed, "Of course not."

"I don't particularly care whether or not you want to hear it, but I'm going to voice my side," I began, my tone harsh. "I use my bullshit degree jargon not because I'm testing _you_, but because I'm showing all of these people in this facility that you can comprehend, and that you're not some brutish subhuman reptilian." His eyes widened measurably and if looks could kill I would've been dead three minutes ago. "You act like I should be a rude, selfish, and uncaring person and I have no idea where you get off thinking that. Everything I've done has been in your defense and I don't know why you can't understand that I'm not the type of person you've been dealing with in this place for the last few months. I know you're intelligent, I can see it in your eyes. And as for the misgivings of your biological identity? You're human, through-and-through. In fact, you're more human than the cold-blooded, soulless individuals I ride the ferry with every day. So, Mr. Jones, stop trying to peg people based on stereotypes you've developed from your sordid past and start talking to me about the things that bother you." I looked at his file. "You're thirty-two years old, move on with your life. You deserve to be happy."

From the corner of my eye I saw Dr. Hirsch's white face staring at me, her mouth gaping. Silence hung in the air as if it were a thick miasma floating from person to person. The only noises that penetrated the uncomfortable lack of noise was the soft pattering of rain as it continued to pelt the window panes.

Mr. Jones started at me angrily as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Unwaveringly, I held his gaze glare-for-glare and refused to offer another word before he relented. It was ridiculous, I felt like slapping him. He was four years older than me yet completely immature when it came to even the most simple, common-sense situations. Whatever cruelty he faced as a child seemed to have him permanently reverted to the underdeveloped mindset of a preteen. I desperately wanted to broach the subject but I was all too aware of the possibility that he would lunge at me again and this time he would be successful in ripping my throat open.

"I don't have a single fucking thing to say to you," he said, tensing, and sat back in his chair. It seemed as though he were puffing himself up to appear larger and more menacing than he already did. His powerful gaze held mine brutally and although it made me feel small, I was lost in the intensity of his gaze and his beauty.

"That's more disappointing than I thought it would be, Mr. Jones," I said with a sigh, returning my attention to his pitiful file on my desk. There were absolutely no records on his past, other than what could be connected to him by the Gotham PD. Additionally, the Batman had tracked him down to the workings of an underground mob that was in cahoot with the Penguin and his infamous black market dealings. "Why is it so hard for you to reveal details about your past?"

His silence was expected but still both irrefutably annoying and counter-intuitive. My dismay at his refusal to budge was evident and scribbled some notes down into his file about his stubborn nature and what might be done to counter it. As I wrote I noticed out of my peripheral vision that he was calming regarding me and his eyes were studying my face.

"Before you ask, no, its nothing negative," I relented.

"Wouldn't matter even if it was," he said flatly and turned his head to stare out of the window at Gotham Bay.

"Are you going to answer my question? What's so wrong about opening up to people?"

"People are shitheads."

I shrugged, "Cynicism does that to us." My nonchalance at having turned his insult back on him fed my confidence and I let the statement hang in the thick are between us, well aware that Dr. Hirsch was practically on the edge of her seat in horror.

"If I tried to kill you, would you yell for the guards? Or would you grab that remote and electrocute me?" He leaned forward in his seat, a dangerous, deviant expression on his face. "What would you do?" I watched, mostly in anxious anticipation, as Waylon stood up from his chair and walked closer to the desk. He planted his hands on the desktop and leaned in to me, his face inches from mine. I could hear him as he breathed and I could smell a faint musky cologne as it wafted through the air with his movements.

"You love to push limits, don't you Mr. Jones?" I supposed he was trying to ruffle my feathers or make me jump out of my skin, but it wasn't working. Personally, I didn't think he was stupid enough to kill me here, in the asylum, with armed officers standing guard just outside. They'd shoot him to death and no one would think twice about sweeping it under the rug; maybe he didn't care about the way things played out for him but I knew he didn't want to die.

His eyes narrowed in interest and the answer of his warm, rumbling chuckle filled the room. "Where the fuck is your common sense?"

"I work in an asylum for the criminally insane, Mr. Jones. I check my common sense at the door and try to keep an open mind," I said evenly.

"Shit, I got stuck with a saintly shrink," he said as he sat back down in his chair. Dr. Hirsch let out a sigh of the breath she had obviously been holding. And despite whether or not I felt the same way, I couldn't help but think about how unprofessional it was. I stole a quick look at her and watched as she took furious notations in her journal, a sheen of sweat at her brow. I could only imagine the things she was writing and what she would say about me as she gossiped to her colleagues today at lunch.

* * *

><p>Later that night, when I was safe inside my apartment back in the city I couldn't help but cuddle up with my laptop and let my thoughts run wild. I couldn't figure out what in God's name I was doing working at that place; it was obvious my talents were both useless and irrelevant. When it came to the thought of having to return to that dismal office at the start of each day I immediately dreaded the rest of my life. When I wanted to be a psychiatrist this isn't at what I had in mind—I thought I would be helping people overcome their debilitating depression and aiding paranoid schizophrenics in deciphering hallucinations from reality. Never would I have ever guessed that I would be providing council to a homicidal gangster with a skin mutation that baffled experts the world over.<p>

But, more importantly, I was terrified that I was developing deep-rooted feelings for my patient. There was no doubt, at least to me, that I was physically attracted to him and I didn't even know how I could be.

Frustrated, I buried my face in my hands and sighed. "You're going to end up like every other infamous doctor of Arkham. You'll either fall in love with your patient or become one yourself." In the midst of my musings, my phone rang and roused me out of my internal conflict. I frowned as I reached for the receiver and read the caller ID of Dr. Hirsch on her office phone.

"Hello?"

"Miss Harker? Cassandra?" Her voice sounded disoriented and panicked.

"Speaking. Dr. Hirsch, is that you? What's the matter?" Realizing that I might be in for a late night I immediately jumped up and ran into my bedroom to change.

"You need to get over to the island as quickly as possible, Cassandra," Dr. Hirsch said gravely. Shoving myself into my jeans, I was about to question her again when she added, "Waylon Jones has escaped from Arkham, Miss Harker. We found the bodies of officers Ramirez and Smith at the entrance to Mr. Jones' cell and he ransacked my office before he left."

"What? H-how... How is that possible? What was he looking for in your office?" Adrenaline coursed through my veins and I was so enthralled I feared a heart attack.

"I had already left for the night, and he was being transferred for-"

"Why would he go through your office?"

"He was looking through my files... one was missing," she said, her voice urgent.

"His?"

"Yours."

I dropped the receiver as a violent pounding came from my front door.

* * *

><p><strong>Read and review? :)<strong>

**-Soule**


	3. Chapter 3

"_Hello? Cassandra, are you still there? Oh god... hello?!"_

Steeling my resolve, I called out to whoever was on the other side of the door. "W-who is it?"

"Gotham Police Department, open up!"

My sigh of relief was loud enough to wake the entire apartment and I laughed to myself. Maybe I fancied my patient, but he certainly didn't even care about me—he'd broken out of the asylum and was probably long gone by now. If he were bent on contacting me, I reasoned, he'd have done it already.

"_Cassandra? Oh please answer... My god. Who's there with you?"_

I reached for the receiver and took a deep breath. "Dr. Hirsch-"

"Oh thank god! Are you alright, are you safe? And call me Nancy, please."

"Yes, I'm fine. There are police officers outside my door right now so I've got to go. I'll talk to you again as soon as I can, D-Nancy," I said.

"But Cass-"

"Really, Nancy, everything's fine," I assured her as more pounding came at the door. "I really need to go now, I'll call you once everything's in order. Bye." Before I could be guilted into a longer conversation, I clicked the end call button and set the phone in its cradle. I knew I'd hear the riot act later when we talked again, and all because I'd hung up on her when I was in supposed danger. But the odds of Waylon Jones showing up on my doorstep were nearly non-existent. If he'd really gotten free of the asylum he wouldn't be stupid enough to do something predictable that resulted in his recapture. At least I hoped.

"Gotham PD, open the door or we will!"

"Just a second!" I called as I made my way through the kitchen and over to the door. I sort of wondered why they were at my apartment in the first place. Dr. Hirsch—Nancy—told me I needed to head over to the asylum, but if they had called the cops to my apartment then that wouldn't be necessary... Especially since Jones had stolen my file. The file which had all of my contact information, including my home address; if it wasn't in Dr. Hirschs' possession then the officials at the asylum wouldn't know where to send the police even if they'd given them a call. Which meant anyone could be on the other side of the door.

As I neared the door I was shaking like a leaf, standing on my tip-toes to see out of the peep hole. Just as I went for to look out, my phone rang. I stepped back from the door with second thoughts to pick it up, but decided to let the call run over onto my answering machine. With a final ring, the machine beeped and Nancy's panic-stricken voice filled my apartment.

"_Cassandra? Cassandra? Pick up! No one called the police to your address, don't open the door!"_

"That bitch needs to keep her fucking mouth shut." I instantly froze in terror as I recognized the voice on the other side of the door. _Waylon Jones_. I double-checked the peep hole to verify his presence, screamed, and ran towards my living room to hide behind the couch. "Open the fucking door!" He bellowed from the hallway outside.

As scared as I was, I found comfort in the fact that other tenants of the building would hear Jones and call the police. Or security would hear the raucous and head up here to remedy the disturbance. Or maybe Jones had killed all the other people on my floor so no one could hear my screams as he tore me limb from limb. This was not happening. Something wasn't right. How did he get past security?

Jones was snarling on the other side of my front door and he continued to pound his fists in anger, the wood bending and snapping. As it gave way and the hall light flooded the room I stilled my movements hoping he wouldn't see me. My breathing came in quick, ragged sobs as they were muffled by my shirt sleeve. He stood in the door frame, breathing heavily, his blazing eyes fixed directly on me.

Faster than I could have anticipated, Waylon dodged across the room towards me and-

Screaming, someone was screaming. I shook awake and jumped straight out of my bed, frantically searching my apartment for intruders. I stood in a hunched position completely braced for attack and I was breathing so hard it was the only sound I could hear—I had been the one screaming. The obvious sounds of the city slowly brought me back to reality and I took several deep breaths. As I looked at the clock I discerned that it was seven in the morning.

Had it all been a dream? Cautiously, I searched my apartment for any signs of a break-in or struggle; there weren't any. All the rugs were in place, there were no claw marks on the floor boards, and the front door was in one piece. I frowned and looked down at myself—I was wearing my work clothes from yesterday.

"A dream," I sighed and sat on my bed to regain my breath. "My god Cassandra, what mess have you gotten yourself into? You should request a transfer to a more harmless patient," I mused, reviewing my options. "Just get through the day; you'll be alright." I realized I was talking to myself and got up to get ready, completely frustrated with myself.

* * *

><p>"Where should we begin today, Mr. Jones?" I asked from across the room. He had been in the room no more than five minutes and I was already squirming in my chair and breaking out in cold sweats under his scrutiny.<p>

"What the fuck is your problem?" He asked as I fidgeted with the hem of my skirt for the tenth time.

"Excuse me?" I stared at him, wide-eyed.

He rolled his eyes, "If you have better things to do, then go fucking do them. I don't even wanna sit through this shit in the first place."

"This 'shit' is necessary for your rehabilitation," I explained as I regarded Dr. Hirsch. She seemed in well enough sorts, which meant that the patient had obviously not broken out of the asylum. And both Ramirez and Smith stood watch outside the office; further proof that whatever I _thought_ happened last night was merely a dream. "So, shall we start with why you were helping Mr. Cobblepot? What made you choose to spend your time as his hired muscle?"

"If you're interrogating me I want a fucking lawyer."

Of course, I didn't expect a straight answer and nor did I receive one. It wasn't as annoying this time around because I suspected he would be tight-lipped but that didn't really mean I was happy with the result. Bitterly, I wondered if that was his charming sarcasm surfacing again. For certain it was a tiring ordeal and I imagined that might have been Jones' game. The less he said, his doctors would lose patience with him, and the more he would be left alone. I had some unorthodox options left to choose from and I knew that with Waylon Jones one had to be unorthodox or they weren't going to get anywhere.

When he continued to remain silent, I tried a different, more direct approach. "Who was it? Your mother, your father, an older brother? Who beat you when you were younger?"

"The fuck?" His attention snapped right to my questions and he glared at me with such anger, unlike any look I had ever seen in his eyes. "Drop the subject," he warned in a low voice dripping with poison.

"So that's where it all began, early childhood abuse? Physical or verbal?" I took down a few brief notations in his file to provoke him further.

"Shut up."

"I will once you start to open up."

"Want to know how I'm feeling? I feel like squeezing the air out of your fucking lungs. I want to crush the life out of you and _smile_ while I do it. I feel like eating you alive."

"Every time we meet you bring up the subject of killing me. Why? Are you trying to scare me?"

"I shouldn't have to try, if you even knew what was good for you, bitch, you'd watch your fucking mouth," he said, his voice still dangerous and low.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "Does this kind of thing make you happy?"

"You wouldn't understand, you don't give a shit."

"I don't? I would think that returning here every day to pester you would make you think otherwise but I must be mistaken. And of course I don't understand, you won't explain anything."

* * *

><p>Just what the fuck did this bitch think she was doing? Her stubbornness pissed me off each and every time I came into this stupid office for another one of her interrogations. I didn't want to bring up my fucking past because I didn't care about it and, shit, it was over and done with. What was even more infuriating was the fact that it didn't matter whether I stared murder into her god damned ignorant face, she still fucking went at it.<p>

"Fine, what about before you went to work for Mr. Cobblepot? What were you doing with your time then? You were flying a bit under the radar it seems because you hadn't been sighted for extended periods of time," she busied herself with my file again, but looked at me with interest and... disgust? Fucking figures.

"Murdering people, eating them. Moving contraband through the sewers," I said and glared at Harker. She was staring at me, the bitch always did, but today she didn't let up for even a second. "Take a fucking picture, it'll last longer."

"And did those illegal activities make you feel good? Did you obtain some kind of high, an adrenaline rush per se?" She didn't say anything about my taunt but she didn't stop staring.

"Yeah, I enjoyed it a lot. You'll never fucking understand what its like to rip someone to shreds," I smiled and leaned back in my chair.

"That's disgusting," she said, curling her precious little lip. Fucking bitch. "And cannibalism, do you enjoy that too?"

"Its not cannibalism. I'm not like you," I growled, offended. Yeah, I fucking knew I was different but that didn't mean I needed a comparison.

"Have you had this condition all your life?"

"That's a stupid fucking question. Of course I have, I was born with it. So, no, I've never been normal," I said with a sneer.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and cleared her throat. "Normal is a point of view. As far as my opinion of it? I think you're as normal as they come."

Before my eyes bugged out of their sockets I bridled my surprise with my anger. "You're not very good at lying, doc." I knew she was messing with me, just like yesterday when she paraded down the hallway the way she did. Her blouse was low cut today and it might have been modest, or what the fuck ever, but she was still showing some tit. And the flowery scent of her perfume was so strong it was the only thing I could smell in this hell hole.

I turned to look out the window and stared across the bay at the faint city lights of Arkham City and wished I was there. I was wasting away in this fucking asylum and no one cared. I wasn't sure I even did. As I looked at the more prominent searchlights coming from Gotham City, I noticed that Harker kept stealing glances at me while I wasn't looking. She was acting like some kind of school girl with a crush-. Fuck. That.

"Do you have anything else to say to me, or are we fucking done here?" I looked back at her and she blushed.

"I-uh," she cleared her throat, "You have somewhere better to be?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Not here."

She huffed and rolled her eyes, "Are you avoiding the real questions here, Mr. Jones, or are you just _afraid_?"

The fuck? I growled at her and toyed with the idea of jumping the hell out of my chair and breaking her damn neck. She looked back at me with a half smile and went back to jotting down some stupid notes. "I'm angry."

"Really?" She asked, raising her brows. "Why?"

"Why the fuck do you think?" It might've been a good god damned thing that those shitheads had the remote to my collar because I was pretty damn close to eating somebody.

"Mr. Jones, I know you don't feel like talking," her voice was soft and soothing, "but it'll help you deal with your anger-"

"And how the hell would you know? You have no fucking clue what my life is like. You think that just sitting here and bitching about my problems will take the edge off? You're deluded." I sat still in the chair and stared harshly at Harker, surveying her actions. I was breathing heavily from my outbursts and my breath pounded out of my nose with each exhale.

"I'm only here to help you Mr. Jones. I'm not interested in fighting with you on a daily basis," she let out a defeated sigh and she slumped in her chair. She looked exhausted. Good, served her fucking right. "Every morning I read your file and do you know what? There's a statement here written by your previous doctor that says you claimed you hate humanity. All I'm doing here is trying to figure out why." She threw my file on her desk with disinterest and looked out the window.

"Why do you care?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't."

* * *

><p>I would swear that as I voiced my retort, a brief flash of remorse passed over Mr. Jones' face. But that was crazy, right?<p>

"I don't feel like talking about it. Ever."

"I imagine you wouldn't. Let me be completely honest here for a change, okay?" Even though I was asking his permission he made no attempt to acknowledge my request. I wasn't sure if he was just being dense or an asshole. "What's so bad about talking? I know I've asked you before but what could it hurt?"

"Me."

Shock—complete, unadulterated shock—washed over me and I was left momentarily speechless. All along I thought he was avoiding my questions because he deemed it no one's business but his own. Although it seemed hugely unprofessional of me, I had chosen to overlook the fact that his past was actually painful enough to still hurt him. It was stupid of me, and I regretted it.

I glanced at Nancy and she nodded eagerly for me to continue.

"We can take it easy, Mr. Jones, when you're ready," my voice was a soft whisper. He regarded me with a calm stare, his eyes vibrant with curiosity yet alert with predatory calculation.

"Don't hold your breath," he said, his eyes smiling at me.

I glanced at the clock and sighed. The session was over and I hadn't made much progress today; I wasn't even sure that I ever would. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones." I clicked the call button for Ramirez and Smith as I tried to clear my head of the rushing thoughts. He was tough and just as stubborn as all of the notes in his file said he was, perhaps even more so.

When Waylon was escorted from the office and well on his way down the hall, I glanced at Nancy and sighed, "He's tough to crack."

She laughed. "You really don't even know the half of it. I'm surprised though, you're making more progress than anyone else in this facility has. You should be proud."

"Strangely, I'm not. I feel as if the interviews are nothing more than a verbal fight. Every time I feel like I've made headway, he comes right back with a scathing reply and I'm left wondering what I'm doing here," I pinched the bridge of my nose and sat back in the chair.

"I've worked here for twenty years, and I think of myself as someone whose opinion matters a great deal. Cassandra," the use of my name got my attention and I looked up, "your methods are yielding results—small results, but result nonetheless. I know you're stressed because it doesn't take long for new doctors to feel the exhaustion of the job. Its lunchtime," she said in an attempt to change the subject, "so why don't you head down to the cafe and get something to eat?"

Her advice was logical, it made more than enough sense, but I wasn't willing to accept it. I wasn't stressed out or feeling any type of pressure—I was just bad at my job. Or Jones was resilient enough to last longer than myself. Whatever the case, I nodded at Nancy, "I suppose you're right." She smiled at me as I got up from the chair and grabbed my purse.

I was in a slightly better mood as I took the elevator down to the lobby. After all, I was done with Jones until tomorrow afternoon and the other patients I had scheduled for today were lively and talkative. I doubted the sessions would be a drag due to the fact that I wouldn't have to try too hard to get them to open up. It wouldn't be a taxing, exhausting drive just to get them to describe how they spent their afternoons as children.

As I entered the cafeteria, the smile that had previously adorned my face instantly vanished. This wasn't happening.

* * *

><p>"No scuffles this time, shit head," Ramirez said as he jabbed my spine with his rifle. I stayed quiet and contented myself with imaging his disembowelment rather than the much-preferred reality of it. The walks <em>back<em> to the sewers were always the longest because I dreaded the confinement of being locked in that pit. Sometimes I wished the collar would just short out when I went under water.

"Yeah, you don't have your tight little doctor to keep us from beating your ugly mug," Smith chimed in, and they both shared a laugh. He kept it up, and I was going to blow a fucking gasket. I growled low in my chest, warning him.

"Oh, did we hit a nerve?" Ramirez chuckled again. "Fucker has feelings, Smith. Who'da thought?"

Smith whistled, "Not me, you?"

"Fuck no. But I bet that piece of ass doc of his knew," as Ramirez leered, I contemplated ripping his face off.

"Hirsch? That's nasty, Jay," Smith whistled again.

"No you numbskull, Harker, the young one. Man she's got a great rack."

"God, I know. If I had that in bed next to me every night, I'd never get any sleep."

As the two broke into a fight of laughter they barely noticed that I had stopped walking. The shorter one, Ramirez, collided with my back and instantly pointed his gun against the back of my skull. "Did we tell you to stop walking?"

"You didn't tell me to keep walking either," I kept my voice at a low growl and hoped to fuck shit-for-brains got the message before I had to eat his friend for measure.

"Ouch, he got you, Jay," Smith said, whistling again.

It might have been true that Smith had lucked out in the good-looks department, but he was one dumb motherfucker. And I was glad that I had him cornered for that simple fact alone. While Ramirez busied himself with scolding his partner, Smith walked around to stand in front of me. I looked down at him and waited for the right moment.

"Shut up, Ethan. Croc, I'm not going to play your stupid games. Keep walking," he ground the barrel into the base of my skull.

Smith switched his attention from me to Ramirez and while his posture relaxed so he could look around me to talk to Ramirez, I smirked and waited.

"Aw, what the fuck Jay? Lighten up man."

"Ethan, you stupid shit, shut up!" Ramirez's rifle slowly slide to the right, until it wasn't touching my neck. Bingo.

In a surge, I braced my neck backwards and when Smith looked up at me in confusion, I rammed my skull forward and headbutted the fucker so hard he fell backwards flat on his ass. While Ramirez stared in shock and processed what happened, I took advantage of his distraction and grabbed his gun, easily snapping it in half.

"I fucking told you not to cuff my hands in front of me, Ramirez," I growled at him, advancing. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that Smith was out cold—probably suffering a severe concussion. Ramirez backed away from me, wide-eyed and shaking.

"Oh fuck," his voice came out as a tiny whimper as he pivoted and bee-lined for the security door.

"I fucking warned you. And it doesn't matter whether you run because you'll never run far enough," I bellowed after him and then took off at a run as fast as the shackles on my ankles would allow. If I had my way, Ramirez was going to die tonight. Sure as shit, I was going to rip him to pieces, like I'd promised, and then _eat_ those pieces, like my reputation fucking promised.

* * *

><p><strong>Let me know what you think! :)<strong>

**-Soule**


	4. Chapter 4

_That's the intern—the new girl I was telling you about—she's got a thing for Croc._

_You're not serious?_

_I wish I wasn't! Apparently she's into cold-blooded sub-humans._

_That's disgusting. She'll be after Great White next._

_I agree, she's a stiff broad. I've talked to her on a few occasions but I can't get her to open up._

_I heard she has a superiority complex._

_You have no idea how right you are._

All around me I could feel the speculations as I reached for a ready-made salad from the snack bar. My embarrassment and humiliation were written all over my face; people were _staring_. And it wasn't just my imagination because I could hear people whispering. At check-out, I handed my credit card to the cashier and noticed the way she regarded me, as if I were some strand of plague. What was wrong?

"Is there a problem?" I snapped at her, raising my defenses.

She shrank back and swiped my card. "No."

"Good, have a nice day," I said when she handed my card back and completed the transaction.

I sat down at an unoccupied table for two and began to eat my salad, still aware of the scrutiny. And here I thought lunch would have a rejuvenating quality that would brighten the rest of my day. After this morning's session with Jones I had hoped that the afternoon sessions would be a breeze—something I could do in my sleep. But my current situation in the cafeteria was quickly diminishing any hopes of a quiet afternoon. While the constant, unwanted attention bred an even further foul mood on my part, the jeers coming from a few of the male nurses at the table next to me acted as a catalyst for disaster.

"Lookin' for company, darlin'?" I glared at the one who spoke. He seemed to be in his late thirties, dopey smile, rugged good-looks, abhorrent attitude.

"You mean you?"

A few of his table mates whistled and chuckled at my response. "You interested?"

"Do I look interested?" I supplied my retort with a bored expression and stared at him harshly for added menace.

"You're gonna have to look elsewhere, Nick," one of his friends quipped, "She only likes the homicidal maniac type."

I sighed and put my fork down. "Your blatant overconfidence and disgusting behavior—especially the ways in which you choose to address a lady—sheds a particularly bright light on your insecurities. For example, your Napoleon Complex."

I assumed I struck a nerve because the one referred to as 'Nick' got up from his seat and made a pathetic attempt at standing at his full height, bracing his shoulders to diminish any delusion that he was a tiny man.

I scoffed. "Napoleon's stature was not the only thing that was reported to be _short_. And, judging by the fact that you didn't know that's what I meant, your mental capacities appear to be in minimal supply as well." I smiled and gathered my things, prepared to leave. Nick and his friends watched me silently as I walked past them. "Have a nice day, gentlemen," I said happily.

The sound of a shrieking alarm stopped me dead in my tracks. "_Warning, security breach. Lower corridor; inmate code black. Lock-down procedures initializing. Warning, security breach."_

_Waylon._ I don't know why I would assume so immediately that it was him, but I knew that within the small span of time that passed he couldn't possibly be in his cell. Before the security doors could lock me into the cafeteria I dropped my lunch tray, spewing salad greens and croutons across the floor, and took off at a dead run for the exit.

"Stop! You can't do that, it isn't safe!" The male nurses who had previously been harassing me were desperately trying to get my attention.

"It doesn't matter!" I yelled back, not allowing myself the time to stop and think. _What_ didn't matter? What the hell was going on? Is it Waylon? Who else is code black?

I slipped through the security gates just before they ground shut, tore my sleeve open in the process, and before I could discern what had happened I was winded and laying on the floor. Dazed, I looked up at my right arm still clinging to my purse strap—it was stuck in the bars of the gate. Without even thinking I jumped up, dropped the purse and took off flying through the corridors. I rounded a corner and ran smack into a security gate, its unforgiving bars tightly shut.

As endless streams of expletives shot around my head I calmly analyzed my options. Sit and wait for help to arrive, or for the security breach to be lifted.

"Not feasible," I said to myself, my voice echoing in the empty hallway. Frustrated for speaking to myself aloud, I slapped my forehead and began to pace. There wasn't anything I could do because of those stupid security gates. I was trapped like a dumb animal and I couldn't help anyone, let alone myself. I leaned against a wall and slunk to the floor. "Sit and wait for help it is," I mumbled as I picked at a piece of frayed carpet.

I may have been sitting for a mere thirty seconds when I felt the beginnings of a severe adrenaline rush. I couldn't just sit and wait for help because... I stopped picking the carpet and allowed my stomach to sink in a moment of sickening realization. _They were going to kill him_. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I knew they would kill him. He'd done something bad, something irrevocable.

I jumped up from the floor and stared intently at the security gate looking for some kind of weakness. My hopes began to deflate as I studied the thick, wrought iron bars that were linked together with impeccable craftsmanship. I wasn't going to get through them unless... My gaze shot to the floor and I looked at the six or so inches of space between the bars and the floor—there was no fitting underneath that. I looked up at the foot and a half of clearance between the bars and the ceiling. Without further thought I started to climb the gate with fervor, my thoughts dead-set on reaching the lower corridor before the Arkham guards.

Once on the floor I tore off my high heels and raced down the hallway, reaching the service lift and adjacent stairwell. No doubt the lift would be faster but during an emergency lock down it would be about as useful as a train ticket. In my hurry I pushed the doors open to the stairwell and embarked on what turned out to be a reckless, hasty stumble to the bottom landing; I paused for a short break and looked up at the ominous 'Sewer Entrance' sign that hung over the ancient rusted door.

_Now or never_. Still panting harshly, I gripped the lever and lifted until I heard the catch release and then I was in the sewer system. After the heavy door boomed shut I was left in an eerily quiet tunnel with carpenter lights strung across the ceiling. Just as I was about to curse myself for ending up in the wrong place, deep growls roared for the opposite end of the room.

For the first time since the lock down began I felt my blood turn to ice in my veins. It was dark in this cavernous dwelling, the walls and floor slick with perspiration from the free flow of water from the main water line that ran the length of the room. A faint odor of iron wafted around me and I shivered at a sudden breeze that hauntingly blew through my hair. I took a minute to assess the situation.

I had to be in the right area because I could barely make out the outlines of semi-fresh footprints: twin pairs of combat treads and another set of much larger, bare prints. That meant that not too long ago Smith, Ramirez, and Waylon had passed through this corridor on the way to his cell. They were in here somewhere.

Too frightened to say a single word, I practically tip-toed across the area until I reached another hallway that branched off of the one I was in. The growling noises grew louder and I could hear intermittent ripping noises, which meant... I gulped, trying to stifle an on-coming gag fit. In the darkness, my sense of smell was increased; the faint scent of iron I had previously noticed was much stronger now. Once again I started to gulp profusely in a vain attempt to keep myself from gagging, when I suddenly tripped. I planted my left hand on the wall instinctively to regain my balance and when I pulled it away there was a wet, sticky residue. I squinted through the darkness, desperately trying to categorize whatever substance was clinging to my fingers. The closer I brought my hand to my face the more pungent the smell of iron. _Blood_.

Before I could stop myself I began to cough and frantically wiped my hand on what I thought was a somewhat clean patch of wall. It wasn't. As I felt more blood stick to my fingers I started to choke and entered a full-on gagging fit all the while still grating my hands against the wall. Tears reached my eyes and I started to whimper, fearing the worst.

"There's blood," I cried to myself, "I need... I have to clean it. Its.. my hands.. I can't," I submerged myself into my hysterics, openly crying and wiping my hands to roughly that it became painful. I was sure I had torn my own skin and now it was _my_ blood as well, but I couldn't shake my panic. Through my tearful gagging I began to try to calm my breathing. "You're fine, it's alright. It isn't even blood, okay? You're going to be fine. You've just gotten yourself worked up over nothing, Cassandra. Shhh, its alright."

Slowly, my tears dwindled and the shaking subsided. I was still freaking out but I knew I could manage movement so I started to walk further down the hallway in search of Waylon. At just about that moment, I took a step forward and heard the worst, most awful, squishing noise I had ever heard in my life. I froze and didn't dare look down. It could be anything. "Anything," I confirmed. I started shaking. And looked down at the floor.

The lighting was poor, I knew that. But for some reason my eyes chose this moment to give me a clear image of what I had just stepped on. Or _in_.

His head was missing, but I knew it was Ramirez because of the name tag still attached to his breast pocket. His left arm was missing from the elbow and wherever his legs had run off to was anyone's guess. By this point I was shaking like a leaf, the urge to vomit, scream, and cry all presenting itself at once. My gaze continued to locate my foot. It was buried in Ramirez's intestines.

I screamed.

* * *

><p>As soon as she started screaming, I knew who it was. My first option was to ignore it but I was in the middle of lunch and it was fucking irritating. Certain noises just set me off and screaming happened to be one of them. I snarled and dropped Ramirez's femur in annoyance as I headed off to find Harker. Her reasoning better be-<p>

"Waylon!" I stopped and listened more intently. "Waylon, help me!" She was sobbing like a person in pain. Like someone in complete agony. I knew what that sounded like; I'd been making people make those noises for a decade. "Waylon! Pl-please! Where am I?" What in the holy fuck?

I picked up the faint scent of her perfume, used her raucous screams for guidance, and started jogging through the corridors to find her. She had to be an idiot to come down here alone. I don't discriminate against genders when I kill.

The smell of blood was all over the corridors and I paid close attention to the mess I had made. Damn. There was blood all over the fucking walls and floors. I had cut the cord to the lighting because bright lights ruined my vision and gave me head-splitting migraines that lasted for hours. Ramirez was reduced to a pile of meat, and I wasn't sorry. I followed the trail of body parts down the hall and finally made it to Cassandra.

She was standing in a pile of Ramirez's intestines that had rolled out of his body cavity after I ripped his body in half. At first I found the scene amusing but then I noticed Cassandra's condition. She had been crying so furiously that her mascara lay in streaks down her face and she was hunched over, hugging herself. I'd seen people act like this a million times but for some reason her terror affected me.

Fuck, I was turning into a bitch. I shook my head and walked over to Harker's shaking form.

"W-Waylon.. th-th-there's blood, and-" As I neared her she reached out a hand towards me.

"Calm down," I said gruffly. Her hand rested on my forearm and I reached down to pick her up bridal style. _Water_. I needed to find some place suitable to wash the blood off of her or this mess wasn't going to improve itself.

"You're warm," she whispered as she ran a finger over the scales covering my pectorals.

"I can regulate my body temperature, you know," I ground out, using all of my resolve not to drop her and leave. In that instant all of the credit I had given her fell through the fucking floor. I was so fucking sick of this dehumanization bullshit. Even if I liked to do it to myself.

"I know that, I can hear your heart beat."

"That doesn't mean shit."

"It means you're human."

"Monsters have heart beats too."

"But not one as strong and gentle as yours."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw her look up at me and I pointedly looked away so I didn't have to meet her gaze. Of all the awkward, stupid fucking situations to get stuck in and this was it. All I wanted to do was go finish lunch.

"Why the fuck did you come down here in the first place?" Since I had removed her from Ramirez's puddle she seemed to be recovering. Her innocent comments that seemed natural for her to make were beginning to subside.

"Because they were going to kill you. I couldn't let that happen," her brows furrowed in contemplation.

I smirked, "Yes, you could."

She looked up at me with brazen concern. "Put me down."

I obliged immediately and let her down, less on the gentle side. "If we're done now, I'm going back to lunch," I growled at her. I didn't have the patience to wait and talk to her or even to listen to anything else she had to say so I turned and started to lumber away.

"Wait!" Of fucking course.

I didn't say anything and I kept my back to her, waiting for her to speak.

"I-I-I," I watched quietly as she fidgeted with her hands and tried to pick through her words. "I want to help you. That's why I ran down here... I knew the guards would try to kill you."

"Why didn't you let them?" My fucking turn to ask the questions. My sewers? _My_ session. I turned around and walked closer to her, inches from her face.

"Because that's immoral."

"I've killed hundreds of people."

"That doesn't mean you deserve to die."

I laughed, "You're a fucking idiot." That's it, my patience was spent. I was out of there.

"You're the idiot."

"What the fuck do you want? I'm not a miracle case! I don't want any help and I'd rather you all went to hell." I was breathing heavily and I could _feel_ my blood boiling.

"I just want to help you!"

"I told you I don't want your help! Leave!" I bellowed.

"Let me try!" She sounded close to tears again. "Let me save you," she whispered.

"There's nothing left to save. And there's nothing you can do about that. Get out of my sight."

* * *

><p>I watched the muscles in his back flex as he slowly walked away, his footsteps crashing on the ground with the weight of his frame. <em>Get out of my sight<em>. His hate-filled words echoed around my head; I felt worse than I ever had. _There's nothing left to save_.

In who's opinion? In a flash of anger—completely atypical of my usual demeanor—I reached into my pocket, dug for the key and threw it at his back. I originally aimed for the back of his head but misjudged his height and it hit his right shoulder blade before clinking on the floor. He whipped around and glared daggers at me before his gaze shot to the floor. I watched angrily as he bent over, picked up the key and regarded it stoically.

"Then save yourself," I said as I stooped to the floor and began using the water flow to wash my hands and feet. The blood had stained my shirt and pants; I would have to buy new shoes. And visit my doctor for blood tests. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to claim workman's compensation because I ran down here after a campus lock down was set in place. If I had AIDS, it was my fault.

I heard Waylon as he stomped across the concrete floor but I didn't look up because I figured he was leaving, satisfied that he had what he wanted. The key fell to the floor next to my knee.

"If I wanted this collar off I wouldn't need the key," he said as he turned to leave.

"But-"

Just then the door that I had entered the sewer through burst open and 12 armed Arkham guards filed into the room, the laser pointers on their guns centered on Waylon's head and over his heart. I scrambled up from the floor and held my arms outstretched as I ran towards them.

"No!" I screamed frantically, "Don't shoot! Everything's under control! I have the situation-"

"Freeze!" Two of the guards shifted and pointed their guns at _my_ heart this time. I stopped instantly and felt as my heart sank into my stomach.

"Wh-what? I'm not a patient, I'm Dr. Harker—Mr. Jones' psychiatrist," I explained, my arms in the air.

"Show us your ID."

I moved my left hand down and started patting my chest, in search of the lanyard with me ID on it. Where the... ? _My purse_. I had hid it in my purse upon reaching the cafeteria because I didn't want anyone to know who I was. It was an ignorant effort to thwart the teasing. And I was stupid for it.

"I left it in my purse, if I could just go get it-"

"Freeze!" Another guard pointed his gun at me when I went to move forward.

"Do I _look_ like a patient, you moron? Where's the orange, hmm?!" I yelled at the guard who told me to freeze; my patience had worn so incredibly thin. My station as a doctor of Arkham was above his as hired muscle. When none of the men answered my question I allowed myself to take a deep breath. Perhaps I could get myself out of this.

"You're covered in blood. What happened?"

I didn't know what to say. My hopes of mending the situation vanished within seconds. It was around this time that I noticed how silent Waylon was, he was so silent I almost thought he had slipped away. But the steady sound of his breathing kept me aware of his presence. And it was weird, because I felt oddly protected just by the fact that he was here with me. If anything were to go wrong I had the clearest sensation that he would save me, even if he didn't let me save _him_.

"I-I," I stammered, trying to think of what to say. Panic set in. I broke out in a sweat; my knees started to tremble. I could hear everything. The sound of dripping water, the buzzing of the torn wires, the blood rushing through my head, the dull hum of the lasers on the guns as they pointed death at Waylon and me. It was too loud, I was losing my concentration. I was done for. I was going to get Waylon killed along with me.

Then, in a moment of abhorrent realization, his voice rumbled through the cavern and silenced everything.

"I was hungry, Ramirez offered."

"Where is he?"

"Where _isn't_ he?" I dared to look over my shoulder at Waylon and saw his eyes. They were dangerous. Despite the fact he was glaring at them through narrowed lids, his eyes blazed a vibrant, poisonous yellow. I saw anger, provocation, strength. He was gearing to rip them to pieces; the laughter I saw glinted in his gaze told me the truth.

"What are you talking about?"

"He's dead, I killed him. She tried to perform CPR on him before I finished him off."

* * *

><p><strong>Drop a line? ;)<strong>

**-Soule**


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm sure you understand why this situation has been brought to my attention, Miss Harker. You've been here, what, a month?" The Warden paused to toss my file, albeit disinterestedly, onto his desk. I watched calmly as he ran a heavy hand over his face and let out a sigh. "Matters like these are severe, it would behoove you to know this. Plotting against Arkham's guards with one of the patients... You showed _much_ more promise than that."

"Sir, I-"

He sighed with such disinterest it was rude. "What do you have to say?"

"I-I," I was so nervous. My career was on the line. Waylon's life... Mine as well? I dreaded to think of the depth of the hole I had started to dig. "Warden Sharp," I began again, clearing my throat, "I was not involved in a conspiracy. My premier patient is Waylon Jones-"

"Ah, yes. That... _thing_."

"I beg your pardon, sir." Sharp waved me on as if he hadn't interjected. "When I heard the announcement for lock-down, I knew they would kill him and, as his doctor, I couldn't let that happen. Not when I could prevent it." As his doctor. I prayed my subconscious didn't have a hidden agenda.

"And if they had killed him?" I regarded Sharp with a calm, collected gaze. It was no surprise to me that the staff at Arkham had an aversion to Waylon Jones; I knew this better than anyone. But what did they truly know? They knew only what Waylon would have them believe. None of them had given him a chance.

"They didn't," I said defiantly.

He leaned forward at his desk. "If they had," his snake-like gaze settled itself on mine and I met his stare. I didn't flinch—externally. Inside, my emotions were running wild and I prayed this godforsaken meeting would come to an end within the next twenty minutes. We stared each other down for what seemed like hours until Sharp pulled back and settled into his chair again. "It would have been better for society."

I chill went over my body and I pretended I hadn't shivered.

"Would you like to see the security footage of your patient?"

"If I could discern what caused Mr. Jones to act so rashly, that would be greatly appreciated. I'm sure I can use it to further his diagno-"

"I'm replacing Dr. Hirsch as Waylon's primary psychiatrist. Whatever notes you gather from the video, you can collaborate with her."

My blood ran cold. "Sir, I-"

"Its not up for discussion. You're on review until further notice."

Was it okay to cry? I took a deep breath and tried to maintain my facade. "Of course," I ground out, smiling curtly.

"Collins will show you to the video security office. Thank you for your time Miss Harker." Before I had the chance to stand up from my chair he pivoted in his and busied himself at a computer. I turned to leave and didn't offer him another word. Something was bitterly wrong with that man.

When I went for the door knob a gloved hand immediately seized it. "I'll get that for you Miss." I looked up into the guard's face and instantly recognized Collins, the guard who shadowed Ramirez on my first session with Waylon. He smiled down at me with a warm look that reached his eyes.

"Thank you," I all but whispered when I stepped across the threshold.

"He's a nasty individual, I'd say you should get used to it but that's a harsh attempt at consolation," he said when the door to Sharp's office was safely shut. Collins' raspy voice was a pleasant sound that calmed my nerves.

"And to think that when I started here I was disappointed we hadn't been introduced." Collins and I shared in a laugh.

"Look, I know you like treating Waylon, and I know that you're upset at being taken off of his case. If you want, I can put in good words for you or something... ?"

"No, don't trouble yourself. I only hope Waylon locks up during his sessions with Nancy. If he doesn't make any progress the Warden might have to change his decree."

Out of my peripheral vision I noticed Collins award me with a sly smile. "Thinking a step ahead, that's good. You need it in this business. Just thank your lucky stars you don't have to chat it up with the Joker. He's a bitch and a half. Thinking ahead only gets you in trouble with him." I would have shuddered, but his lighthearted tone allowed me to find humor in his words.

As we walked side by side, I wondered if my time at Arkham was limited. I wondered what it was going to be like sitting in on Waylon's sessions as the outsider. I wondered what they were going to do about him, and if he was okay.

"Is he alright?"

"He'll be in solitary confinement until tomorrow morning; I doubt they'll schedule another session for today. A follow-up after today's events would be a good choice though," Collins set his jaw and I noticed his mood change.

"What's the matter?" Silence. "What's wrong?"

"Croc isn't a good person."

"Croc? What- who is that?" But that was a stupid question. Who had residence at Arkham and looked like a crocodile? I wasn't fool enough to assume that Waylon didn't have any derogatory names, but it was still cruel. How could anyone feel comfortable using such a name? When the realization dawned on my face, Collins silently nodded his head.

"He used to work in a circus, that was his stage name."

"The circus? How do you know this?"

"Croc and I used to run in the same circles. I helped out with props for the circus he worked in; it was my first job." He adjusted the gun that he was carrying and continued, "He's not really a friend, but we have an understanding."

"Is that why Smith was reassigned as a primary guard?"

"Yeah, Ramirez was a dipshit. I'm not sorry he's dead. I wasn't going to run around as his lackey while he beat Croc half to shit."

"Thank you."

"Don't. Just because I wasn't there doesn't mean it didn't happen."

My brows furrowed. "But you cared enough to remove yourself from the violence. That counts in my book."

"Perhaps." He motioned towards a thick, locked door that read 'Security' in large blue letters. "You can have a seat wherever you like, I'll bring the footage up on the review screen," he mumbled when he unlocked the door and held it open for me.

The room was large and decorated from floor-to-ceiling with security equipment. There were computer monitors on every table top and large screens were mounted on adjacent walls. Off in a corner to the left there was a desk topped with a gun cabinet and a radio charger base that was set up for at least a dozen hand-helds. Although it was shocking at first, I quickly recovered and immediately felt relieved. All of this care towards security meant the Arkham guards had their hands full and were doing their jobs... right?

After scanning the room I settled myself into a padded chair with wheels on the legs and waited for Collins to queue the security footage. The room grew dark and a light flashed from a projector mounted to the ceiling. It began with Waylon being escorted from my office and then followed the trio as they traversed the hallways until they came upon the sewer entrance. Once on the other side of the door, the altercation began.

"_No scuffles this time, shit head."_ I recognized the voice as Ramirez. Following his cruel tone he roughly punched Waylon in the spine with the butt of his rifle.

"_Yeah, you don't have your tight little doctor to keep us from beating your ugly mug."_ Smith this time, accompanied by a quick shot at his dopey smile. I gasped at his words; the realization that they _were_ talking about me behind my back drove me crazy.

Of a sudden, I heard a low growl rumble through the speakers mounted adjacent to the projector. _Waylon_. He must have been upset with the guards' taunts... Or was it the comment about me? No, that would be silly. He had no allegiance.

"_Oh, did we hit a nerve?"_ Ramirez again. _"Fucker has feelings, Smith. Who'da thought?"_

A whistle from Smith. _"Not me, you?"_

"_Fuck no. But I bet that piece of ass doc of his knew."_ My anger surged. How dare they?

"_Hirsch? That's nasty, Jay."_ Smith whistled again.

"_No you numbskull, Harker, the young one. Man she's got a great rack."_

"_God I know. If I had that in bed next to me every night, I'd never get any sleep."_

When they were finished, they both broke into a disgusting, raucous laughter that made me glad one of them was dead and the other was reduced to a vegetable in ICU. I paid closer attention and saw that at the last jeer, Waylon had ceased walking which caused Ramirez to run into his back. When he bounced back he promptly pointed his gun right at the base of Waylon's skull.

"_Did we tell you to stop walking?"_ Ramirez asked incredulously.

"_You didn't tell me to keep walking, either."_ Waylon this time, his deep, gorgeous voice filling the cavern. Shoots of adrenaline ran through my veins and I felt a wave of excitement take over. As he growled again, I smiled.

The adrenaline got me talking. "That's Waylon, no doubt about it. Always witty with his comebacks-"

"Shh, you'll want to pay close attention," came Collins' stern reply.

"_Ouch, he got you, Jay."_ Smith, whistling again.

"_Shut up, Ethan."_ While Ramirez started to scold his partner, I watched as Smith walked up to Waylon, pleased as punch. An alternative camera picked up on Waylon's face and I watched him look down at Smith, a mixture of anger and dangerous cunning illuminated in his eyes. It was a shame that the cameras picked up images in black and white, I would have loved to see the golden hue of his gaze. _What?_ I shook myself and tried to ignore everything other than what was happening on the screen in front of me. _"Croc, I'm not going to play your stupid games. Keep walking."_ Ramirez visibly ground the barrel of the rifle into the back of Waylon's head.

What happened next took place in the span of mere seconds at best. And instantly, Waylon's devious expression made complete sense. Although he was still standing in front of Waylon, Smith made the mistake of taking his attention away from him when he leaned around to look at Ramirez. _"Aw, what the fuck Jay? Lighten up man."_

"_Ethan, you stupid shit, shut up!"_ Because Ramirez was busy yelling at Smith—who was arguably the most ignorant, ill-trained guard in Arkham—he hadn't noticed that his rifle had shifted just enough to the right that it was no longer in contact with Waylon's skull. And Waylon _knew it_.

Faster than the speed of light, or really close to it, Waylon headbutted Smith so hard that he flew through the air before landing on his back. His body made a sickening crunch as it impacted on the concrete floor. Ramirez, gobsmacked by the recent events, stared at Smith's otherwise lifeless body and neglected to train his gun on Waylon. It didn't matter. Again with his fast reflexes, Waylon grabbed Ramirez's rifle and snapped it into pieces and let them fall to the floor.

"_I fucking told you not to cuff my hands in front of me, Ramirez."_ Waylon's growl was back and as his voice grew to a menacing octave, I shivered in my chair. Suddenly the room was very noticeably cold. Ramirez was slowly backing away from Waylon, wide-eyed and shaking.

"_Oh fuck."_ His voice was barely audible as he turned around and rushed for the electric security door.

"_I fucking warned you. And it doesn't matter whether you run because you'll never run far enough."_ Waylon yelled after him and then he took off at a dead run, in pursuit of his prey.

When Collins cut the footage, I shivered again at the thought: Ramirez must have never made it to the door. "I don't think you need to see the rest, it's not pretty."

I nodded, "I wouldn't have watched it anyway." Silence overtook the room; I was rendered speechless by what had happened in the sewer.

"You can look at that video any way you want. Croc was defending your honor and, clearly, the way those two morons were talking about you pissed him off."

"I-I... No, I do not think that was the case. Ramirez had been tormenting Cr-Waylon for months. It was simply a build-up of animosity and poorly-controlled anger."

Collins lifted an eyebrow, "Is that what you truly believe?"

"I have no reason not to," I said as I lifted my chin.

"Every time Croc is committed to Arkham, Ramirez is assigned to him. This 'build-up of animosity and poorly-controlled anger' has been going on for over four years."

"What? Why every time? That's an unhealthy situation for the both of them! Look what happened!"

"Whatever happened was what Ramirez _allowed_ to happen. He was an idiot, Cassandra."

"I'm not going to blame Ramirez's death on either of them. And it's cruel of you to say that Ramirez caused his own death. Yes, he was a poor, stupid fool but what happened was a freak accident. Waylon doesn't usually-"

"Cause bodily harm to people in Arkham? Oh yes, he does. Ramirez is the first guard he's ever killed and eaten, yes. But he's mutilated people before. Nurses, doctors, guards. And if he can't kill someone, or eat them, he'll certain try his best to _maim_ them and that's something you need to understand. Have you ever met Cash?" When I shook my head 'no', Collins continued, "He's a guard who's worked here for over ten years, and he's not 'stupid', by any stretch of the word. A few months ago, Waylon got pissed off at Cash for hitting the button on his security collar. So what did Croc do?" Collins' anger showed on his face and by this point he was yelling. "He tore Cash's hand off in the brawl. You'd be stupid to let your guard down around him. He's an animal."

Although I made sense out of Collins' speech, I was still angry. "Why do you think all of this started? Can you answer that?"

He looked shocked. "Why did what all start?"

"Why do you think Waylon acts the way he does? Has no one ever thought about that? Does anyone even care? Something has to happen to a person, whether real or imaginary, to cause them to act like that! You don't just wake up one morning and decide that you're going to become a serial murderer and cannibal to fill your lonely evenings!"

"No one's been able to figure anything out about Croc, and that's not their fault. He won't let anyone in."

"Because all of you people! Look at what just happened in the sewer! And what you just told me!"

"What-"

"Does 'every time Croc is committed to Arkham, Ramirez is assigned to him' ring any bells in your fucking head? Arkham has _allowed_ Waylon to hate all of you, and why shouldn't he? This is disgusting. You put him in these horrible situations by your own doing. All of this is Arkham's fault," I finished, huffing in anger. How could Collins be so dense, so blind to the truth?

"I can't believe you're taking his side," Collins said solemnly after a span of time.

"I can't believe you're not! And you don't even know me, so you better _believe_ that I'm capable of anything," I said in a low, dangerous voice. When Collins offered nothing in return I grabbed my things and left that dreadful security room. As I walked back to Hirsch's office I once again could offer no valid reason as to why I put up with working in this cesspit of an institution.

* * *

><p>"Cassandra! Oh, thank God you're alright!" When I entered the room Nancy jumped up from the seat behind her desk and embraced me in a tight hug.<p>

I had to laugh at her worry, "I'm fine Nancy, everything's alright." I patted her back and wished she would let go of me and cut the dramatics. I wasn't in the mood to deal with her frailty.

"Everyone said that you were trapped by Croc!"

"He has a name. And no, I wasn't 'trapped'... I was trying to keep the guards from killing him."

"What?" When I didn't offer any further explanation, Nancy fell silent and regarded me calmly. "You weren't in any danger?"

"Not at any time, at least not with Waylon. When the guards arrived they thought I was an inmate." I thought of adding, '_and threatened to blow my brains out_' but decided against it to save her sanity.

"I would think so! Abetting a murdering fugitive?" She gasped in alarm.

"Fugitive? He was in the confines of Arkham the entire time. And he was defending himself from Ramirez, go have a look at the security footage."

Nancy's drama queen routine was getting old. I had hoped I would be dealing with the strict, no-nonsense individual I had met at my interview. But I had since learned that was just a professional front that she used against anyone who didn't know her. The real woman underneath that facade was much more irritating than someone who was never happy.

"Ramirez is dead, Cassandra."

"I know that, what made you think I didn't?"

I assumed that Nancy could hear the annoyance in my voice and she backed away from the subject. "Well, that aside. Believe it or not, we have a session with Mr. Jones this afternoon."

I heart began to hammer in my chest. I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him so soon after I learned what had _really_ been going on. "When?"

She glanced at her wrist watch. "In an hour. You have time to try another hand at lunch if you want?"

"Sure, are you going?"

She laughed, "I wasn't able to get to the cafeteria before lock-down."

We smiled at each other, grabbed our things and headed out of the office for the cafe. It was nice. I felt for the briefest of moments that I belonged here and this was just another day at work. The day's earlier antics were a part of the distant past.

Until we made it to the cafeteria.

"I guess they heard the news," Nancy whispered into my ear when we walked through the double doors. "Be prepared for an onslaught."

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to feel comforted by her attempts to make jokes of the situation, but I wasn't prepared to deal with the questions, the attention.. any of it.

"Er.. What do you want? I had a salad earlier, it was good. But I'm in the mood for something else," I tried to make small talk in an effort to ignore the stares being shot my way.

"Sandwiches? Filling, light... Not too heavy?"

"Yes," I nodded, "that sounds great."

As we got in line at the deli counter, a group of people began to form a line behind us and the woman directly behind me asked if Waylon had tried to kill me.

"What?"

"Did he, you know?"

"She wants to know if you were scared of Croc. Did he try to eat you?" A male nurse piped up from the back of the line. The room was dead-silent, awaiting my answer.

"N-no," I said sheepishly. Then I realized how stupid everyone was being and I grew a backbone. "He wouldn't, because I didn't provoke him. Now, if you please I'd like to get my lunch and eat in peace."

"She survived the crocodile!" Someone said from the back of the line.

As cheers began to sound from every corner of the room, Nancy sighed in frustration. "Everyone shut up. Leave her be!" Her no-nonsense side was back and the tone of her voice worked for the correct measure: the cheers died down almost as quickly as they started. "You're going to have the worst week yet, I fear," she murmured to me as we paid for our sandwiches.

"It can't get any worse, trust me."

"No, it can. Just wait. We still have Waylon to handle after lunch."

"Oh goody," I said with an ounce of sarcasm, "dessert."

"Don't worry, Cassandra. The Warden informed me that you are on review... And the truth is, I don't even want to conduct the session," she announced as we sat down at a small table.

"I can't ignore the Warden."

"No, you can't. But if I suddenly take ill..."

I stared at her, my eyes the diameter of saucers. "You wouldn't."

"Try me. I know that session is going to be a doozy if anyone other than you handles it. I'm prepared to take the chance."

I let her statement hang in the air as I unwrapped my turkey sandwich. She might have been prepared to do it, but she wasn't being closely monitored by the person who ran the facility. I could be fired within an instant, and who in their right mind got _fired_ from Arkham of all places? I began to chew my sandwich with complete dread. I wasn't prepared to take the chance. And I was even more unprepared to deal with Waylon.

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><p><strong>I'd love to hear from you, review? :)<br>**

**-Soule**


	6. Chapter 6

"What?" I heard his devilish laugh rumble through the corridor, spilling from the open door at the end of the hall. "You afraid I'm gonna eat you too, Collins?"

"You wouldn't be able to get to me faster than I can get to my gun, Croc, so shut up."

I rounded the corner and stepped into the room, my eyes instantly settling on Waylon and Collins. Waylon was seated in a chair directly in front of the desk as Collins fastened his hands to the arm rests. They were standard asylum-issue shackles, large brown leather straps with barely-there, worn off padding lining the insides. I watched as Waylon's huge forearm tensed and the powerful muscles flexed beneath the material.

Sitting down, he was almost the same height as Collins was standing up; he was leaning forward, his head tilted up towards Collins, a shit-eating grin plastered to his face. Collins looked down at him, scowling. Waylon stretched as far as he could so his face was directly in Collins'.

"Do you want to test that fucking theory?"

As Collins' hand tightened on the grip of his rifle, I chose that moment to clear my throat and announce my presence. Immediately, Waylon's head whipped around and stared at me, his eyes burning. I blushed crimson and tried my best to cover it up, hoping that Collins hadn't been watching.

He had. With a sound of disgust, Collins pulled the last of the restraints tight—too tight—around Waylon's wrists and then left the room.

In keeping with her illness ruse, Nancy had deferred to her secondary office and when Collins shut the door behind him, it was just me and Waylon in the room. I gulped, shivered, and then tried to get my act together. I didn't really believe I was in danger with Waylon, but what did I know? I didn't honestly think he'd kill anyone while he was in the Asylum, and he did it anyway. Surprisingly, there were few repercussions for him and I had to wonder whether that was his motivation to kill at all while in custody.

"And what the fuck do you want?"

My eyes snapped to Waylon's in an instant. I was embarrassed that I had let my mind wander around him because I was afraid it made me look stupid or weak. And when the personality type of my patient was one of cold, intelligent calculation, I couldn't necessarily afford to give him the upper hand. Even though he most likely had had it all along.

"You have a session today."

"Well no shit." He tried to turn his hands over so they were palm-up, but the shackles were simply too tight. "And I fucking wondered what this shit was for. Tsch."

"What is your problem?"

His brows shot sky high. "_My_ problem?"

"Yes, yours," I snapped back as I folded my arms over my chest.

"I don't have a goddamned problem, you do. I didn't ask to be tied down to a fucking chair—a _wooden_ chair—and forced to sit through another one of these stupid fucking sessions. Its not going to be any different than any of the others."

"So what if it is a wooden chair," I said as I rounded the desk and sat down. "That's not the point. Why won't you ever answer any of the questions?"

"That _is_ the fucking point. Any shithead with half a brain would know that I could break it. Whether you tied me down like a dog or not." He was growling now, but I still wasn't sure if he was as pissed off as I'd seen him before. Like during his first session with me. The session when I actually thought I was going to die.

I sighed. "Here we go again." My elbows braced on the desk, I lifted my hands to my face when a creaking noise came from Waylon's direction. I looked up and watched as he flexed his arms, his biceps straining hard, until he broke the arms of the chair away from the base. Then, still seated, he lifted his arms one after the other up to his mouth and ripped the leather restraints with his teeth. All the while I stared at him, my mouth agape.

"I told you."

Collins and his companion must have been alerted by the security office that Waylon was loose because within seconds they had the door open and were gunning for him.

"I have it under control. You can leave."

"He's loose," Collins snarled. He would most likely never get that scowl off his face.

"I'm aware. I have the button to his collar," _no I didn't_, "and I'll shout if I need your help."

Begrudgingly they both relented and shut the door, once again leaving Waylon and I alone.

"Why would you do that? Why did you need to prove to me that you could break the chair? I knew you could, Collins knew you could, everyone knew you could. So why do it?"

"That's what you're concerned about. My reason behind breaking the fucking chair."

"Yes."

"My hands are free."

"Good, that must be a reprieve. Collins tightened them too much and it looked painful. Was it cutting off circulation?"

"Do I still have my hands?"

I chose not to answer due to his smart retort, but instead went down a different route with my questions. "So would you-"

"My hands are free."

"I'm aware. Now, would-"

"The closest person to protect you wouldn't get here before I ripped your throat open."

I felt a chill and goosebumps started crawling over my arms and legs.

"You wouldn't." I was scared for my life, but my resolve wouldn't let it show. Instead I tried my hand at bluffing.

Although nothing happened physically, the room darkened. Waylon's mood had changed drastically; I could feel the heated anger radiating from his body.

"What makes you think that?" He asked lowly, cynically.

"If you were going to kill me, you've had plenty of chances to do so."

"Name one."

"Any time we've ever had a session."

"With the collar and the dopes with guns? Hardly."

"In the sewer."

He stopped for a minute. "I'd already eaten."

"So? If you wanted to kill me, you'd kill me."

"Are you afraid."

It wasn't a question. I didn't know whether to quit while I was ahead or continue. My adrenaline rush was telling me to keep going, that this was working. If I went toe-to-toe with Waylon in a setting where he felt in control, I might be able to get him to open up. But that was foolish, Waylon was always in control.

"N-no," at my stuttering I lost my composure and I felt the blood drain from my face. Waylon could actually kill me right here, right now if he so wished. I didn't even have the fob to his shock collar.

A toothy grin crept across his face and for the first time he looked truly menacing. Although he remained handsome, it was diminished by his calmly suppressed violence. "You're fucking terrible at lying."

"And so are you." Shouldn't have said that. Of all the ignorant decisions-

"I should fucking kill you," he said between growls. He was angry and there was no doubt about it. I tried to remain scared or worried like any sane person would, but Waylon was always in varying states of anger. There was no other emotion that he portrayed when people were around him and his fury was all I'd ever known of him. So it was hard for me to continue to be frightened when his hatred and outrage was the only emotion I knew him capable of. It was commonplace.

"If you answer my questions you can go back to the sewer." I was still partially bluffing because I didn't believe Waylon would give in to conditioning, but it was a start.

"That's going to happen anyway. I don't care."

"I'll remove the collar." I was more serious than I'd ever been with him.

"Like you could do that. You don't have the fucking authority or even the damn key."

I sat back in my chair, pulled the top drawer open, and grabbed the key. When I held it up for him to see, he smirked. "Its the same key that works on any of the pacification collars in this building. We have them at our disposal so we can use them on lower level patients if need be."

"You're going to get yourself fired."

"As if you cared about that."

"You're fucking crazy and you belong here more than I do."

I laughed, taken off guard. "Why?"

He, however, remained serious. "Because I know what I am. You and everyone else knows what I am. I kill and eat people. I'm locked up for it. But you're fucked up. You don't care if you die and you're always putting yourself in situations where you know damn well that you're going to get killed. I don't know if you want me to kill you, or you're just looking for any way to end up in the ground."

My smile faded completely and I tried to make sense of Waylon's speech. "That's not true. I don't want to die."

"Then why do you keep provoking me to kill you?"

"All I'm doing is asking questions. You're the one jumping to conclusions suggesting you're going to kill me."

"Because my past is none of your business."

"I'll have the collar removed for the duration of the session. Please." It wasn't that I was desperate, because I really wasn't. I just wanted to know—not for work or for any reason. I wanted to help him, sure. But deep down, this was the Waylon that he would always be. Even if he opened up to someone somewhere down the line, that would be the only person to know about him. He would keep up this facade with everyone. And that was it. He was never going to tell me anything. Unless...

I got up from my chair and, walking towards the corner of the room behind the door, I reached up on my tiptoes and pulled the cord from the camera. The audio and video feed from the security office was now gone and I felt the freedom to speak frankly for the first time since the incident in the sewer system today. When a knock came from the door and Collins began to twist the knob I opened the door and told him everything was fine. Or, I _tried_ to.

"The feed's down. Either leave the door open or allow us in there. We'll terminate the session if you disagree." He obviously wasn't going to be swayed. At all. His jaw was set defiantly, his eyes glaring down at me.

"Look, I know what I'm doing. The camera must be bugging out, but everything's fine," I said in a hushed voice. "Waylon isn't going to say anything if there are witnesses. And that camera going out is a godsend. If you had a demented past that would ruin your reputation or put you in a state of vulnerability to the people who knew about it, would you want it recorded so anyone could see it?"

He seemed to think about it for a minute and I saw his expression waver.

"Please?"

"He broke out of the chair."

"Yes, I know, but he hasn't done anything."

"Yet."

"Collins, if he were going to do something he would have already done it. He didn't kill me in the sewer."

He was silent as he looked down at his boots and then at Waylon. His lip curled as he regarded my patient, but it wasn't hostility in his eyes. I wasn't sure what it was, but I believed in that second that Collins wanted me to get into Waylon's head. "Fine."

"Fine? Yes?" When he nodded in compliance I beamed. "Okay so we'll say that the door was left open?"

"Yeah, I'll get my partner to back it up. If no one walks by in the hall I'll say I stood in on the session."

I sighed in relief. "Thank you, Collins. Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet. If anything happens you yell right away. And keep that god damn collar fob close. The minute he even motions to get up-"

"I know, I know. Thank you," I waved him away as I shut the door. This was it... This, was _it_. If this worked, Waylon would have to answer some questions. If I could pull strings with the guards and get perks for him—oh, this was good. And I was excited. I turned around and-

Ran right into Waylon. I was sandwiched between him and the door, with nowhere to go. Timidly, I craned my neck to look up at him.

"When did you get up, why aren't you sitting down?" I asked in a small, quiet voice. He just stood there breathing evenly, silent as the grave.

"You don't have the button to the collar. Do you."

"No." I had no idea what was happening. What was he doing? What was _I_ doing? He was standing so close. Too close. I was going to lose it. Why did I turn the feed off? Why did I do anything? Where was the button to his collar? Was it getting hot in the office?

Just then Waylon titled his chin up and breathed in deep, his eyes closing. He held his breath for a moment and then let it out, chuckling as he did. "You're scared."

It wasn't a question but I felt the need to answer him. "Yes. I could scream."

"Trust me, they wouldn't get the door open. I'm closer to you than they are."

"They'll kill you."

"Did they kill me for eating Ramirez? For sending Smith into ICU?" When I didn't answer, he knew he had me.

I was right, this was it. I was going to die. No more dramatic speculations. This really was it. I clenched my eyes shut and hugged myself in preparation. How was I going to die? Would it be quick? Was he going to eat me? I shivered at the thought.

"What's your problem." Not a question, a demand.

"Didn't we go over this? I'm scared."

"Hmm," he leaned in close and sniffed my neck, my face, my hair. "I know, I can smell it."

This was really weird. It felt really weird. I was scared, but I wasn't uncomfortable. I was shaken, but I wasn't ready to bolt.

"Where's your fucking common sense."

"You've asked me that before. And I told you. Now can I ask the questions?"

"The collar."

I looked up at him stare-for-stare as he looked down at me. His eyes, as always, were burning, blazing. The yellow was so pure up close that it could nearly take someone's breath away. I wondered how many people saw those yellow pits before they died. What terror had they felt? As if he could sense why I was staring, Waylon looked away to the right and exhaled. "The collar," he said again.

"Ah, er, yes," I mumbled as I slid past Waylon and be-lined for the desk. Standing safely behind the huge chunk of faux wood, I picked up the key and handed it out to him. The time it took him to walk up to the desk to grab the key was agonizing and it took an eternity. I took the time to question my sanity and my motives. _In the name of discovery_, I told myself.

Once he had the key he reached up with both arms behind his head to undo the lock. I stared at his chest as he did so, admiring the sharp lines of his abdominal muscles. Soft and mostly devoid of scales, the tint of his skin was a mix between a light shade of beige and apricot. I followed the planes of his stomach down to the subtle V-shape that continued well past the drawstring of his bright orange Asylum pants.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Startled out of my thoughts, I jumped back and brought a hand up to my throat. My pulse was going haywire. _He'd caught me staring_. "Nothing, I was just thinking." What a dumb response. _Nothing, I swear._ Like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I attempted to straighten myself up by fixing my skirt, smoothing back my hair and wiping any mascara away from the delicate skin under my eyes.

I cleared my throat and sat down. "Do you want to get started?"

He set the collar on the desk with a dull thunk and tossed the key towards my folded hands. When he seated himself he exhaled gruffly and leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. "What," he grumbled.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean."

"To you. What happened to you? Specifically, in your past."

"I had a piss poor childhood. Can I go now?"

"No, you agreed to answer my questions. So answer them." It was clear he wasn't going to elaborate. I sighed deeply and began to scribble some nonsense in his file to see if I could get him to continue. When he made no attempt to speak, I grew even more frustrated. "I know you're stubborn and I know that I'm stubborn too. So I guess what's going to happen is we're just going to sit at these sessions and not say or do a damned thing until one of us breaks."

"And it'd be you. I can guaran-fucking-tee that."

"We had a deal," I said with as much defiance and strength as I could muster.

"Do you think that means anything to me?"

"It should. If trust meant something to you, keeping your word should be equally as important."

He smirked. "I don't care if you trust me."

"Fine. I don't care if you trust me either. So if we're done here, I'll have Collins take you back to the sewer."

I didn't really expect him to react. In fact, I expected that he'd be happy with my decision to end the session. All I needed from him now was some snarky comeback about how he'd won and I was giving up. If Waylon was feeling anything like himself that wouldn't take long at all.

"Looks like my stubbornness outlasted yours. I fucking knew it would."

"Yep, congratulations. Before you leave, I'm having Collins put your collar back on. And I'm giving him the controller," I said disinterestedly as I got up to leave. Sneaking a glance at Waylon, I reveled in the look of disbelief on his face. It quickly faded with the growing presence of his anger. "What? Want to change your mind?"

"Like hell."

I laughed lightly, "Fine." I turned away from him again and as I neared the door I reached for the knob. Before my fingers had a chance to close around the cold brass, Waylon spoke up.

"My father left me to die."

I wasn't shocked, I wasn't horrified, I wasn't happy, I wasn't ecstatic. I was stunned. Stunned in similar fashion to an insect after it has been hit with a heavy object. My hand dropped from its failed attempt to grab the door knob and I stood there, facing away from him. I couldn't look at him, it wasn't that easy. As I processed the new information my mind raced with all sorts of conclusions—conclusions that I hoped were wrong. Did his father beat him? Was he abused in the foster care system? Of course he was... His appearance was enough to bring out the absolute ignorance in even the most mildly idiotic people. My heart welled for him.

I turned around and slowly made it back to my chair, hoping that he wouldn't stop talking. As I sat down I realized that was probably about as much as he felt like sharing. "Where was your mother?"

He looked over at me and glared, but not with malice. It was... irritation?

"She died giving birth to me, I never knew her."

"So who raised you? Were you in the foster system?"

That was it, he was finished. He looked away from me and stared out the window.

"How old were you? Will you at least tell me that?"

"I'm done. That's all I'm fucking spilling for now," he said, his voice elevated, as he reached for his pacification collar. Once it was snapped back in place around his neck I put the key back in the drawer and sighed. A glance at my wristwatch told me the session wasn't over for another twenty minutes and I didn't feel like calling it quits yet. "Are you going to call the guards." Irritation, his words were dripping with it. And it wasn't the irritation you got from someone waiting for their morning latte, either.

"I have to make some notes and we still have a few minutes left."

"Give me a fucking break."

"Just sit with me for a bit, please? I'd rather have you calm down than hand you over to the guards with your current temper," I said as I began to write minor, semi-vague notes into his file. The way that I chose to make the notations made them look as if they were my speculations and nothing more.

He huffed and I knew he'd rather rip his own legs off, but it was nice. If I could get him into the habit of talking and then sitting in silent reflection, maybe he would feel calm. For once? As I wrote I kept stealing glimpses of him, carefully planning them so he wouldn't catch me.

He was perfect. And I was weak. I knew it was a horrible, wicked thing that I was falling for Waylon Jones, of all people, but it was hard not to. Sure, he had the worst temper I'd ever dealt with but there was still something inside of him that was worth saving. He was damaged, but not broken. I didn't view him as a charity case, either. But he was so powerful and masculine sitting there in that chair, the way his massive chest rose and fell with his breath. The way his jaw clenched when he was biting his tongue, trying desperately not to let me know exactly what he was thinking. The way his eyes stared intensely and with such intelligence and calculation—intelligence that many people would argue wasn't there. But I knew it was.

As I was staring at his mouth, his black tongue darted out and he licked his lips. It was strange to me, that he would be born with a forked tongue when his affliction was skin-based. Or maybe he had it cut. It didn't matter which reason it was, he was still perfect to me. I didn't care that he was covered in green scales, I didn't care that he had sharp teeth, I didn't care that his tongue was forked, or black. I was able to see past all of that and I still found him attractive.

_Quell your passion for that monster_.

_We don't need another Harley Quinn._

Nancy's words suddenly broke into my mind and I felt the blood drain from my face. It was becoming a habit. "I'm not Harley Quinn," I mumbled to myself under my breath.

Waylon's head whipped around in my direction, his brows furrowed. I looked up immediately and my stomach fell through the floor, the pen dropping from my hand.

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><p><strong>I apologize for the delay and I sincerely hope you all enjoyed this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait!<br>**

**-Soule**


	7. Chapter 7

The minutes ticked by like hours. I stared at him wide-eyed and he stared back, the silence so acute one wouldn't even hear a pin drop. My anxiety began to settle in as a result of the close scrutiny and my complete screw up. My palms grew sweaty and I started to shake like a chihuahua, or some tiny mammal, and it was mortifying. I thought about saying something, but it wouldn't come out as more than a garbled mess of stuttering. Anything I tried to say would be semi-coherent at best. My only alternative was to signal the guards.

Waylon seemed to know what I was thinking, and just before I could open my mouth he demanded an answer. "What. Did you just _say_," he was livid. Oh my God was he angry. And I thought I knew what he was like when he was angry.

"Collins! The session's over!" My shaking reached a fever pitch and I was thankful that I had been able to articulate a call for assistance.

"Oh no you fucking don't," he bellowed as he jumped up from his seat and barricaded the door with his massive frame. "Fucking answer my damn question. _Now._"

"No," I said in a small voice.

"I swear on my life I'll kill those guards. If you're not intelligent enough to fear for your life when I threaten you, I swear I'll fucking kill Collins and his shithead shadow." When I didn't answer he growled so loud I feared the windows would break. "Answer me!"

"Open the fucking door Croc!" Collins was banging on the opposite side of the door. He must have assumed it was locked because he began to shoot the locking mechanism, then he resumed pushing on the door. "Croc we aren't messing around. I'm not even going to count I'm just giving you one warning. Move away from the door or we're shooting through it."

"Waylon, move." Things were escalating to the point where I knew someone was definitely going to get hurt. Badly.

"Not a goddamn chance. Answer. The. Fucking. Question."

"I can't!" I yelled as I felt tears sting my eyes. I felt stupid and immature, like a child. I felt like breaking as I watched my resolve and composure abandon me to my stupidity.

"Why?!" He yelled back. His large, clawed hands were digging into the molding around the door frame.

I sat back in my chair and instantly sought out the desk drawer. I checked the first, and then the second. Nothing. I scanned the desk top. Still nothing. In a last resort I pulled open the tray drawer directly under the desk and there it was, nestled against some pens and a small stack of post-it notes.

Waylon growled, "What the f-"

I picked up the remote to Waylon's collar and, regretting the decision as soon as I made it, I jammed my thumb down on the button. Much like every other time the collar's electrical charge shot through Waylon's body, he went rigid, his hands clawing at the collar to get it off. His teeth were gritted, but his eyes were wide open and they were looking at me the entire time. When I let my thumb off of the button to let him rest he fell to his hands and knees.

"Fuck you," he said breathlessly. As I saw him go to get up, I jammed my thumb down and sent another charge through him just in case.

Collins must not have known the door was free, because he began to fire shots into the room. They were low shots, and would have taken out Waylon's legs: if he'd been standing. In his hunched position on the floor, the bullets were coming through the wood at just the right height to hit him in the head. I panicked and released the collar's remote, yelling at Waylon to stand up or move. "Waylon move, they're shooting!"

"I can't, you fucking bitch. My muscles are still spazzing; you fucking electrocuted me." He no sooner finished speaking than a bullet blasted through the door and lodged in his right shoulder with a thud. "Fuck! Goddamn it! You fucking cock-sucking bastard. Motherfucking Jesus Christ!"

"Collins, he's down! You shot him after I got him with his collar!"

"Yeah, anything else you fucking people wanna do to me? My other shoulder is feeling left out." As Waylon shifted to stand, the motion caused fresh blood to run out of his bullet wound. The smell hadn't reached my nose yet, but the sight was enough to induce a gagging fit. I turned and tried coughing into my hand but I couldn't stop my reaction to the blood.

Collins bashed the door open just then and entered the room. He had pushed it open so forcefully that it hit Waylon in the face as he went to stand up. Hard. As he stumbled back against a bookshelf, blood ran out of his nose. He reached a hand up and wiped at it then pulled it away and scrutinized the red liquid. When he looked down at it he scoffed. His tongue made an appearance and he licked the blood that started to run over his lips and down his chin. "This day just keeps getting better and better. Got anything else to try? I think there's still some more blood in me that you haven't fucking leaked yet."

I started coughing again as the metallic smell bombarded my senses so thoroughly I could almost taste it. I was pretty sure I was a lovely shade of green. "Yeah, good. Glad its affecting you. Fucking cunt."

If I had been able to spare the breath I would have gasped. But instead tears continued to run down my face as I attempted to stifle my gagging fit. But it was no use. The smell of Waylon's blood filtered into my nostrils and I searched the room for the nearest waste basket.

Collins and his partner took a minute to glance around the room. What they were seeing must have been puzzling and awkward. I was in the back right corner retching my lunch into a gray trash bin and Waylon was over across the room, leaning against a bookshelf. His shoulder was bleeding so profusely that it was dripping off of his fingers and staining the carpet beneath him. His bloody nose had dripped down his chest and over his pecs; some of it had landed on his pants.

When I had recovered as much as possible—for the moment—from my upset stomach, I tried looking over at Waylon, hoping those eyes of his would be a calming sight. They weren't; he was looking right at me and he was glaring hatred into my _soul_. I felt wretched. I had tortured Waylon with his collar, all because I had failed to keep my mouth shut and he wanted to know what I had said. But he had heard me, I know he had. His hearing was impeccable as was his sense of smell—the blood that bothered me must have been _much_ worse for him. But whatever pity I could have felt was diminished with the fact that he enjoyed killing and he had probably grown accustomed to the stench.

I watched as Collins and the other guard began to put cuffs on Waylon. He flinched away and held his wrists out of their reach. "Fuck off, hasn't enough happened."

"Lower your hands, Croc. We're taking you to the hospital ward to get your shoulder looked at. Protocol requires you to be cuffed," Collins said disinterestedly. I hoped that Waylon would just comply. Because he was right, enough had been done. But I knew he was dangerous. I had always known that, but I was stupid enough to ignore it whenever it suited me. Just because Waylon had recognized my fear in the sewer. Just because he had shown the briefest moment of kindness. Just because he had actually begun to open up about his past. I was a prized fool.

"If you have the remote to my collar why d'ya gotta cuff me?"

"I'm not going to ask again."

"Neither am I."

I felt the unwarranted need to interject, "Waylon just-"

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, cutting me off.

Collins sighed, "Croc."

"Collins," his lip curling, Waylon looked down his nose at Collins, disgust in his eyes. As they stared at each other, Collins' partner came over to my desk and retrieved the remote. And in perfect timing, too.

Without warning Collins jarred Waylon in the jaw with his rifle, knocking him back against the bookshelf so hard he broke two of the shelves. When Waylon pushed off of the wall and braced himself to tackle Collins, his collar began buzzing and he was forced to the ground from the sheer power of the charge. As Waylon twitched on the ground I covered my mouth and cried. His eyes never left mine.

"This is all... because. You wouldn't. Answer.. my damn-" a long pause as he continued writhing, "question," he finished on a grunt. His nose was still bleeding and as he gritted his teeth, I saw that they were tinged red with blood. His eyes scrunched just then as the charge reached the end of its cycle. It had all happened entirely too fast. I hadn't even blinked.

* * *

><p>It fucking hurt. The damn collar buzzed for years and I could feel all of my muscles twitching. It was going to be a long fucking time before I had 100 percent of my movement back. I didn't want to go to the damn hospital—those fuckers were just going to put a bandage over my bullet wound and send me on my way. They didn't give a shit about any of the criminals in this joint. Least of all my sorry ass. They'd probably leave that irritating bullet in my shoulder and let it heal there. I should have ripped the bastard out as soon as I felt it hit home.<p>

Collins and his idiot friend cuffed me when the buzzing stopped, jerking my tensed arms behind my back as they did it. "Yeah, why don't you fucking rip my arms out too. Might as well you piece of shit."

A kick in the stomach was my response.

"Or you could rupture my intestines, I ain't complainin'," I spat, on the ass-end of a wheeze.

"I'm getting tired of listening to you, Croc. Just shut up."

"Fuck no. You all want to beat me the fuck up, I'm not keeping quiet. You can listen to my bitching until you're a bunch of fucking corpses, I don't care so fuck you." As the two shits with guns attempted to lift me off the ground, I started laughing. I was a heavy motherfucker due to muscle mass and like hell if I cared whether they were struggling to lift all 500 plus pounds of me off the ground. In the process, Collins stole another cheap shot and beat my nose in with the butt of his rifle. When fresh blood started oozing from both nostrils, I spit in his face.

"Waylon, please just-"

I didn't even want to speak to her. I just glared at her fucking face, hoping she'd look away. I knew she was nothing but bad fucking news the minute I saw her. And why the ever loving fuck she had to be my doctor was a goddamn enigma. _Enigma._ Motherfucking _Christ_, I hoped that asshole still couldn't breath on his own after the last time I'd seen him. Tried to use his mind control bullshit on me. _Goddamn it_. I was so fucking angry.

"Get me the hell out of here before I fucking eat her, _please_," I said to Collins as I continued to stare at Harker.

"Take it easy, Mr. Jones." Collins' partner. Some new guy. Not familiar with Arkham SOP, probably. I ate kids like him for breakfast back in the day. As if rotten slabs of beef were any fucking comparison.

I shifted my gaze to the left and looked down at him. That was enough—he looked away almost as quickly. Good. At least one fucker in this joint understood. While he looked away sheepishly I tested the restraints that had my hands jammed behind my back.

A little tug here, a few there... Yeah, these were shit. I could be out in minutes.

Collins stopped what he was doing and looked me right in the eye. "Don't even try it," he said in a menacing voice. I laughed.

And then, dipping my shoulder down low, I pushed off of the bookshelf and rammed Collins in the gut until we hit the opposite wall. I held him there and brought my knee up to knock his automatic out of his hand, affording myself just enough time to get the skinny on what Collins' lap dog was doing. He stood there, face white as a sheet, the remote not even in his hand. I scanned the area for it and saw it on the ground—it must have fallen out of his hand in shock—and it now resided under Harker's desk. Fuckin' A I hope it stayed there. I vowed to decapitate the next person who touched it.

While I was distracted, Collins' right hand reached for the radio at his belt and called for back up. "We need.. back up to H-... HARKER'S OFFICE. NOW!" With as much might as I could muster I applied more pressure to my shoulder that was now cozying up to his neck. In the middle of his disgusting choking noises, I could hear Harker crying behind me.

"Oh, would you please shut the fuck up."

"I thought we were making progress," she whined.

"Yeah, progress," I scoffed while mumbling every cuss word under the sun.

"I thought you trusted me! You were being so cooperative!" She sounded desperate now, her sniffling taking a back seat for a brief moment.

"What the fuck! I'm a goddamn criminal! You think I'd actually tell the fucking truth? I just fucking met you. I don't know who you are or what-" I felt Collins go limp as he passed out. Easing my shoulder back, I let him fall to the floor, "your affiliations are. As if I'd tell you a damn thing. You're a fucking idiot, and this job isn't for you. Go the fuck back to Gotham, bitch."

Not even turning to look at her I took a look at what was going on with the door, trying to figure out whether it would work as a barricade again.

_Click._

My head fell back on my shoulders as I stood there, my hands still fastened behind me. "You've gotta be kidding." If that little shit thought he was going to _shoot_ me.

"O-on y-y-your knees, Croc-c."

"You know I'm going to have to kill you know, right?" I didn't even turn around to look at him because I knew the minute I looked at his goddamn, scared-shitless expression I was gonna snap.

"S-shut up! I said.. I said on your knees. And wait-t until b-b-back up gets here."

Now or never. I started to go down on one knee, slowly, while gently applying pressure to the cheap ass cuffs that held my wrists together. They broke free just as my other knee hit the floor and I spun around, grinning up at the kid. He stood there, shaking like a fucking leaf during a hurricane or some shit, the gun not even pointing straight.

"How in the fuck did you get this job," I asked, laughing.

The kid chuckled nervously, "My-"

_Perfect_.

"NO!" Harker yelled.

But it did no good. I had already jumped up, grabbed the kid's neck, and twisted so hard I felt his skull completely sever itself from the spine. His skin was keeping it on his shoulders.

"NO! OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD." I could hear her screaming, but when I turned to look for the source she wasn't there. Only one or two places she could be: under the damn desk or in the closet.

"Tick tock," I said, grinning from ear to fucking ear. "Here comes the motherfucking Croc."

* * *

><p>I sincerely hoped he would check the closet first. He'd think I was an idiot if I chose to hide under the desk when the closet had a locking mechanism. But he wouldn't know that the closet was already locked, and I didn't have the key. Nancy had that key. So hopefully the door being locked would deter him long enough for the guards to get here and pacify him. Or kill him.<p>

I almost didn't know which I would prefer. Everything I'd known had been a lie... Or had it? I knew this was Waylon's true nature. I knew it and I chose to ignore it only because I truly believed he would assist me in his rehabilitation. But why? He had no reason to comply with my wishes. Conditioning would never work on him because he didn't fear the repercussions. He didn't have any fear about what someone could do to him. I once thought that he didn't want to end up dead—that he was only doing what he wanted to because he knew he could get away with it. This facility was steadfast in protecting the security of the island, but they didn't want all of their patients to end up dead. And with patients like Waylon and Joker, that would be inevitable. Therefore they had protocol in place to keep the guards from just shooting the inmates when they didn't cooperate. But I didn't think that would be the case this time.

I kept wishing that this was just another sordid dream—something completely fake. Maybe I would wake up before he found me? Maybe the guards would arrive, kill him, and I'd wake up from the shock? If my actions didn't get me fired, I was quitting. I understood why so many people left Arkham. I understood it now.

I heard the closet doorknob jiggle as Waylon tried to get into the tiny space. "If I broke that piece of shit chair, what makes you think I wouldn't break this goddamn door?" His nasty, snarling voice didn't even sound human.

Cautiously, I looked around the edge of the desk, in a risky attempt to discern whether Collins was alive or, at the very least, conscious. He was sitting against the wall by the door, slumped over and not noticeably breathing. As I felt fresh tears begin to sting my eyes I tried my best to bite them back and suck it up. Not that that tactic was going to last long. I wiped my eyes and squinted, looking long and hard at Collins. I knew he was breathing, I just needed a sign. His black SWAT gear obstructed most of my view of his movements due to the thick armour; the bulletproof vest was the biggest obstacle.

Then, I saw it. A gloved hand twitched towards one of his thigh holsters. My gaze shifted to his face and I watched as his eyes flipped open. He looked around the room, recovering from his daze, until his eyes landed on me. I mouthed the word 'help' and pointed towards Waylon. He was still trying to get into the supply closet. Collins nodded and gently unsnapped the fastener of the holster, sliding the gun out with little noise. He took a deep breath, cocked the gun, and pointed it at Waylon. It was too quick for Waylon to dodge, however, and a single, miniscule tranquilizer dart lodged itself directly in the center of his chest. He stepped backward slightly and looked down at the yellow capsule before ripping it out with no hesitation. But it was too late. The force of the dart hitting his flesh had released the tranquilizer immediately on impact and it had begun to effect his motor skills nearly as quickly. He listed sideways and fell onto the desk for support then lost his footing and fell to the floor.

When Collins sighed in relief I knew that the drug had worked and Waylon was out cold. But I didn't want to move. I was still terrified. And I didn't want to look at Collins' partner's dead body.

"Fuck," Collins whispered under his breath. "What a fucking mess."

"Its all my fault," I whimpered.

"Not entirely, but yeah."

"I thought I had Waylon on my side."

"He isn't on anyone's side. He played you, Cassandra."

As he said my name I shut my eyes and leaned against the foot-board of the desk, crying. "I'm going to get fired."

"Maybe."  
>I laughed nervously. "You're really good at consolation."<p>

"I know." I listened to him as he stood up and placed the taser-gun back into its holster. I assumed he picked up one of the rifles, because I heard it click as he checked the ammunition. He walked around the desk as he put the strap of the gun over his shoulder. "Come on," he said, "let's get you to the infirmary." He squatted in front of me, trying his best to smile as he held out his hand.

"No," I muttered, shaking my head. "I don't want to see him."

"Croc?"

"No... The boy."

"I covered him with a doctors' coat. Its okay."

I reached for his hand and allowed him to help me up. I didn't dare look around the room, at the complete mess that used to be Nancy's office. Everything was all my fault. And I'd never forget it, ever. Would it be acceptable to take up drinking?, I contemplated as Collins led me from the office. I was going to be doing a lot of drinking that night, I vowed.

* * *

><p>"Put him back in the goddamn sewer and I don't want him to see the light of day ever again."<p>

I didn't know who was talking. I didn't even know where the fuck I was but I couldn't fucking move. My arms were tied so tightly behind my back that my hands were numb. I tried more than once to change the way I was laying on the floor, but damned if I wasn't kicked in the stomach every single time. I thought the room was pitch black until the blindfold shifted and I saw light. What in the fucking hell.

"Yes sir."

"I didn't even know why I'm bothering." A sigh; the smell of cigar smoke. "He would be better off dead. We would all benefit."

"Do it," I said, without an ounce of hesitation, my voice level. Fuck all if I was going to argue.

"Shut up, animal!" One of the guards.

"As if I haven't heard that one before, fucknut."

"Shut up!" Petulance? What a fucking joke.

"Suck my dick." I might have laughed.

"I'll shoot him between the eyes, put him down like a dog, you just give me the permission," the guard, again.

"So you believe the issue is that simple?" Another sigh, more cigar smoke; I figured this clown had to be Sharp. Only one sadistic motherfucker in this joint who smoked cigars and fantasized about decorating his wall with the inmates of his Asylum. If he wasn't so fucking old I would have just eaten him.

* * *

><p><strong>Too much? Too soon?<br>Thoughts?**

**-Soule**


	8. Chapter 8

_Was the room spinning? Why did the floor feel like it was sloshing around as if I were on a boat?_

Groggily, I looked up from where I lie, scanning the room I was in. Maroon curtains, wooden floor, Ikea furniture, smell of roses, smoke, and alcohol. Right.

Taking a precious moment to grasp my surroundings I reached for my phone and checked the messages. A few calls from Nancy. One from Mr. Sharp. Three new voice-mails total. Sighing heavily I tossed the phone, as gently as I could, onto the coffee table. I wasn't nearly ready to deal with anything involving Arkham.

"Time to start reading the classifieds in the _Gotham Globe_," I mumbled as my eyes wandered over to the one empty wine bottle and the other mostly full one which had since warmed to room temperature. I hadn't even made a dent into it. But as I contemplated and scrutinized those inconsequential bottles, I couldn't help but reflect on my poor life choices.

God, what had I done.

* * *

><p><em>Four days earlier...<em>

"All things considered, Miss Harker, I think its best you went home," Warden Sharp said from behind his desk. "And stayed there."

I tried smiling politely, if only to help my case. "Of course," I replied in a small voice.

"I'll be calling you in a few days to discuss your future—whatever it may be—at Arkham. Until then, please remove your belongings from your office. Collins will escort you."

As if I were a common criminal. As if I would run wild through the halls, flipping the switch on the security gates and patients' cell doors. I nodded and offered a courteous 'thank you' to the Warden before I rose as graciously as possible from the seat across from his desk. I had done enough crying, and I'd be damned if I was going to tear up in front of him.

Collins' presence was a welcomed and comforting reprieve as he stood at the back of the office holding the door for me. He was different today. His expression was harsh, those pearl blue eyes of his looking straight ahead defiantly. And I instantly felt guilty. It had only been a single day since Waylon had tried to kill him and succeeded in killing his partner. The trainee whom he was supposed to protect. The trainee who died because of my actions. I walked past him, my eyes closed. I couldn't even look at him. But I felt his eyes on me. I didn't know whether it was a good thing or not. Probably not.

When I made it into the hall I didn't wait for Collins, I didn't want the awkward silence that would surely ensue. So, instead, I continued walking towards the office, thinking of all manner of things in a poor attempt to forget about the pain I had caused so many people.

"You don't have to be so solemn," he said gently when he'd caught up to me.

I laughed lightly. "Should I be a beam of sunshine instead?"

He looked at me sideways, opened his mouth, shut it. _Gotcha_, I thought to myself. There wasn't much he could say that would ease my thoughts. A sleepless night of twisting and turning from guilt had opened my eyes to the magnitude of what I had allowed to happen. I had trusted Waylon. I had trusted him. And people were injured. People _died_. It wasn't the same as when Ramirez had been murdered... He had instigated that himself, I hadn't done anything. Smith had since woken up from his coma, but he wasn't the same. Nothing had changed mentally, but I figured it was emotional—the man had finally grown up. Thanks to Waylon.

_No_, I said to myself, _not thanks_. Frowning, I thought of what lay ahead of me. Where did one go from here? Surely I would be fired.

Collins walked silently next to me, the only noise coming from the jangle of the ring of keys at his hip, the rustling of his uniform, the heavy falls of his boots. I timidly looked up to his face and saw the hard lines of his face, how they were set in a brooding, deep-in-thought kind of way. It wasn't a menacing expression, there was no hate or contempt. It seemed as if he were trying to reach a solution for some dire problem. Probably how to get out of my presence as soon as humanly possible.

When we approached the office, I waited while Collins opened the remains of the door for me, and it was smooth sailing from there. I all but ran into the room and in a mad dash I grabbed my small amount of things as quickly as possible. If I lingered I was afraid I'd take the time to look at the disarray of the bookshelf, the dried stains of blood, the claw marks all over the door frame. It would trigger the terror, the memories and emotions—ones I didn't want to feel for a long while. Or, at least, unless I was swimming in the drunken haze of alcohol.

But it was too late. I had let my gaze rest on the spot where Waylon had fallen after Collins' tranquilizer dart had worked its so-called magic. He'd lain there, breathing so calmly. It was too easy to watch his sleeping form in its innocent state. Too easy to sit and wonder how someone who knew the depth of true pain could so effortlessly inflict it on others. I'd been there when they'd dragged him out of the office. No sooner had I left the room for the EMTs to remove the boy's body than I was back in there, making sure the guards treated Waylon kindly. No beatings were going to happen under my watch. I didn't care what he had done.

It had taken four guards, two under each of his heavy arms, to drag him out of the office and down the hall to the elevator. I was there, squished into the back corner while the elevator took us down to the lobby just outside the sewer system. Collins was right next to me the entire time, enforcing my wishes. And I couldn't figure out why. The four men had dragged Waylon down the passage way and when we reached the entrance to his 'cell', the guards used all their might to throw him into the space before allowing the barred gate to slam shut and lock itself.

"Hey!" I had yelled in protest as the guards chuckled and made their way back to ground level. I had approached the cell and held onto the bars tightly, frantically checking to make sure they hadn't hurt him. _As if he were a delicate piece of glass_, I scoffed to myself. Right. While I watched him for a few moments, hoping he'd wake up, Collins told me gently that it was time to go.

And now here I was, packing up the scattered, meaningless trinkets from my desk, clearing out my office. I was finished with Arkham. Perhaps for good. As I pushed back tears, Collins sat quietly up against the wall behind me.

"Why do you care so much?" His deep voice snapped me out of my reverie.

"I don't know." And it was the truth. I was certainly _not_ going to tell Collins that I was attracted to Waylon. So as far as he was concerned, I was crazy. And that was fine.

"I've never seen a doctor act like you. I've never seen it before."

I looked over at him briefly and put myself in his shoes. I must have appeared so confusingly odd. A plain-Jane twenty-something with her entire life ahead of her who willingly chose to work at Arkham Asylum. And then she threw it all away, killing and injuring people in the process, just to... Just to what? What was I trying to accomplish? Get myself committed? Add to the body count? Did I expect Waylon would fall at my feet whenever I foolishly ignored protocol to further my selfish intentions? I was disgusting.

"Yes you have."

"What?" Collins looked up at me from the floor, his brow furrowed.

"You've seen doctors like me. They just work at Gotham General and treat normal people... I don't know what to tell you other than that. I came here with compassion and the sympathy to rehabilitate hardened criminals and hardcore psychotics. These people need doctors who care, not sadists like Sharp. Waylon just needs.. kindness. That's something I don't like he's ever had," I could hear the gentle sadness in my voice and I knew Collins could too.

"He's a lost cause. Don't you see that?"

"No. I don't."

"Its because you refuse to. You've only known him a month; I've known him for years. Take my word for it, Cassandra."

"I can't and I won't. He needs someone to believe in him, even if he won't believe in himself. He's in there somewhere. He's _lost_ inside of his own mind. And isn't that a terrifying prospect? Wouldn't you want someone to help you?"

"Yes, but the difference is I'd _allow_ the person to help me. Croc doesn't. I doubt he ever will."

"You don't know that, you don't know if you'd allow someone to get inside your head if you were in Waylon's shoes. Waylon has been taught his entire life not to trust other people. Can't you see how fragile he really is? You think this is him? You think his tough-guy act is really him? The toughest people are usually the closest to breaking. You don't see how Waylon lives his life on the cusp, trying not to fall in completely? Why else would he want to hide alone in his sewer, away from people? Painful topics are painful for a reason, and its not his fault he doesn't want to talk about them."

"But you shouldn't have to badger him. That's evidence enough."

"Maybe it is, but he doesn't get to give up that easily. Its not fair."

"You're too good for him."

"Not really. He doesn't think so."

"Well, in your words, it doesn't really matter what he thinks. Does it?" I thought he was mocking me until I turned to look at him. A smile was creeping across his face and it was encouraging. He was trying to spread some kind of messed up cheer. But it was nothing more than a feigned pleasant moment in an otherwise terrible day, and I didn't feel Collins' warmth today. Whatever it was he was thinking about was reflected on his face.

"Do you think I could see him before I go?" I'd had to ask twice before he heard me and suddenly lifted his head.

He frowned. "Who, Croc?"

"Yes," I mumbled, looking down sheepishly. "This might be the last time I'm here. I might never get to see him again."

"That's not a good idea. And, besides, I don't think I could get authority to take you down there again."

I knew he was lying. Few guards occupied a higher station than him. I crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't believe you."

"Cassandra, look," he sighed, "its just not a good idea. I know you want to say goodbye, but don't you think its best that you didn't? He probably wouldn't even want to hear it."

"That's a chance I'd be willing to take." I wasn't about to budge.

"Well, I can't. I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I can't, okay? Croc is specifically on lock down. I can talk to him if you want me to. Just tell me what to say."

For the briefest moment I thought about dismissing his offer. In the end, I had no choice but to relent. "Just.. tell him bye. Tell him I tried to help and that I'm sorry."

"That's it?"

"I don't really know what else to say.. I just wanted to," tell him myself, look in his eyes one last time, feel his presence, hear his voice, "say goodbye."

"I'll make sure he knows."

"Oh, who are we kidding? It doesn't matter if you said anything to him, he doesn't care. And, in that case, neither do I." I tried to smile at Collins while I placed the last of my things into a small bag. "Ready to go?" I asked as cheerfully as I could when I was finished.

"Uh, yeah. I'll take you to the ferry." He was still brooding. It was distracting to the point where I wanted to ask him what was wrong. But the last thing I wanted to do was play psychologist again. I let him be and walked silently beside him to the docks. He helped me onto the boat and made sure I was safe and ready to go back to Gotham. We stood there awkwardly for a moment, neither of us making the move to say our goodbyes. I couldn't wait for the ferry to take off, couldn't wait for the comfort of my apartment, the comfort of a hefty bottle of Merlot. The silence lasted forever.

"Look, I... ah..." he scratched the back of his head as he floundered for the right words, "can I give you my number? I know this is difficult for you and I just wanted you to have a way to reach me in case you needed anything."

"Um, sure," I said as I handed him my phone. I watched as his gloved fingers found my contacts and it took a moment for him to type in his name and number.

"I put it in under my first name, I hope that's alright," he said, his eyes downcast as he returned the phone. "Its under 'Matthias'."

"No, that's fine. Thanks," I smiled at him for reassurance. He wasted no time in smiling back and, with an awkward handshake, he left the ferry.

* * *

><p>Three more, rather large glasses later and the first bottle of Merlot was well and nearly gone. As I began to feel the effects of the alcohol I sighed and felt calm. It had only been two days since the incident at Arkham. The sting of the events from earlier on in the week didn't feel as potent and I was almost to the point where thinking about it didn't make me want to smash my head through a wall. But it highlighted my loneliness. And the silence. I checked my watch; eleven o' clock at night. That explained the silence since most of my neighbors got themselves into bed early. Since they had jobs. And I didn't.<p>

"You haven't been fired yet, Cassandra," I said to myself as I grabbed the Merlot and nursed the last few gulps, savoring as much as I possibly could. "But you could use more wine."

Five minutes later I stood in the middle of the kitchen with the realization that I didn't have more than one bottle left. One bottle which already had a quarter of its contents missing. I couldn't even drive to the store to replenish my stock. What now? I made my way back to the living room, allowing my head to slosh around with the lightheaded feeling I was currently sporting. It wasted some time, but not much. I sat on the couch and watched the clock above the television click its hands, hoping that it would speed up. Or stop. I wasn't really in the mood to complain. Nothing seemed interesting. Not the television, my laptop, certainly not answering my voice mail. Nothing appealed to me.

"Fine," I said disinterestedly, "shower it is." I had hoped that after a good, long shower I would be tired and inebriated enough to fall asleep, pass out, I didn't care which. "But you haven't had that much to drink," I whined as I lathered my hair with shampoo.

Sure enough, half an hour later I was sitting back on that couch, staring at that clock, waiting for nothing. My eyes wandered the room as I sought some kind of distraction. I pulled out a cigarette and lit it, closing my eyes as I inhaled deeply. On the exhale I thought about ordering some food, maybe a good movie from one of the film services on my television. I couldn't get my mind off the need for more wine and eventually gave in to my thirst, and retrieved the bottle from my kitchen counter. While I sat around my apartment slowly downing another glass of the Merlot's dry, but tasty and satisfying bitterness, it took my mind off of the fact that I still had the Arkham mess to deal with.

"The mess that you caused," I said to myself darkly. "Shut the fuck up." _Damn it_. I took a few more drags from the cigarette and picked up my phone, located the pizza place, called, and placed an order. It was a small order, just one large pizza. I didn't think it was going to take too long, so I flipped on the television and browsed channels. I was searching for anything remotely good, but in all 500 channels, there was absolutely nothing. I settled on some stupid chick flick that I'd hoped would take my mind off of, well, my mind.

It succeeded in keeping me occupied until the delivery boy arrived twenty minutes later, but not long after. My gaze kept returning to my phone and those messages that were on there, sitting pretty in my voice mail. I listened to the first, heard Nancy's voice and skipped it. Listened to the next, Nancy again. I kept listening to the end, picking up on the annoyance in her voice. She didn't outwardly say anything regarding whether or not the annoyance was aimed at me, but I knew it was. I scoffed and deleted it, not daring to listen to what I assumed was Sharp's message.

Its not that I didn't expect to get fired; I knew that would be the result. I just didn't feel like confronting it yet. I didn't feel up to the task of hearing Warden Sharp's voice tell me that my dream career was over. Even while intoxicated. And Waylon...

As the grief and regret hit I closed my eyes and buried my face in my hands. He was going to end up dead. I was never going to see him again. And I didn't even get to say goodbye. My last moment with him had been while he lay on the cold floor of that sewer, sleeping so peacefully. I desperately wondered how he was doing, what he was thinking. I wondered, if he didn't end up dead, who his next doctor would be. Would they be kind? Mean? Would it be that dreadful Whistler woman?

I didn't even get to say goodbye... Collins had done that for me-

In a panicked surge I reached for my phone and all but broke the buttons off of it in my attempt to retrieve Collins' number from the contacts. Once I found it I hit 'send' without a moment's hesitation.

"Hello?" A male's voice answered.

"Collins?"

"Yes."

"Um... Its Cassandra... I um- I wanted to ask you," I was trying so hard not to shake, or stumble over the words, "did you-"

The brief hesitation then, "Yes."

My heart jumped nearly out of my chest. "And?"

"He didn't say anything. I don't know if he heard me.. he wouldn't answer when I called for him."

And, just as quickly as my hopes had sprung, they were crushed. I felt the acute feeling of dread and disappointment wash over me, numbing what little feelings I still had. "Oh..."

We sat on the phone together for some time in silence, the only noise coming from our breathing. I had to go, I had to go now or I was going to break down. And I didn't want Collins to listen to it.

"Look-"

"Collins-"

I heard his laughter from the other end as we both started speaking at the same time. "Go ahead," I told him.

"How are you holding up?"

How exactly should I have answered that question. Tell him the truth? Tell him that I was mentally drained, I couldn't stop drinking, I was mourning the end of my career? I missed Waylon? Just take a deep breath and tell him that, _hey, so I don't know how to tell you this, but I really like Waylon. He's just the greatest. I know he's a blood-thirsty killer and he tried to kill us both, but something about that 'I-could-kill-you-all-in-seconds' gets me weak in the knees. All in two months' time, isn't that the darnedest? And, you know, I don't think I'd mind if he killed me, ha-ha!_

Yeah.

Right.

"I'm fine," I said in between puffs on my almost-finished cigarette, "just taking it easy."

"Are you smoking?"

"Yes, and drinking the loveliest bottle of Merlot that I," my voice trailed as I leaned forward and smashed the cigarette butt into an ashtray, "seem to have finished. Its been quite a night. But, I do wish I had more." _Just blame it on the alcohol_, I told myself. "I was actually feeling really lonesome. And I... I just wanted to check in."

"Really?" I could hear surprise in his voice.

"Of course, I almost got you killed, didn't I? I figured it was only reasonable..." I heard my voice trail off sadly as I remembered the consequences of my actions.

"It wasn't entirely your fault, you know." He said sternly and I slumped back into the couch, knowing full well he was only trying to make me feel better.

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I should probably go-"

"Wait. Don't hang up on me," he said authoritatively. "What's on your mind."

Not a question. But he demanded an answer nonetheless. "Look, I don't know. Never mind that I called. I'm sorry. I've most likely been fired, and I got someone killed. I'm just having trouble dealing with it and I-"

"Where do you live?"

Silence. More silence. "What?"

"Where do you live?" My heart began pounding.

"I-uh, um, Gotham Tower Apartments, j-just outside of Central."

"Room number?"

"317... There's a cheesy welcome mat on the floor."

"Good to know, I'll be there soon." He hung up before I could say goodbye. I was in a state of panic, then, as I ran around my apartment and rushed to tidy it up. The last thing I wanted was Collins to come in a see how far I'd let myself go in the past few days. Then again, he had never seen my apartment before so it didn't matter whether it was clean or not because he had nothing to compare it to. But my dignity wouldn't allow me to leave it in such a messy state. I straightened up the living room, putting the couch pillows back in their place, fixing the blanket that draped over the back of it, neatened the chaos on the coffee table. I grabbed a few plates and some napkins from the kitchen in case Collins—Matthias?—wanted to eat something.

"What are you doing, Cassandra?" I asked myself as I surveyed the living room, one hand on my forehead. "Are you signing yourself up for a date." _What?_ "Absolutely not. You're having a friend over to commiserate over a horrible week that you started, a horrible week that was all your fault. A friend whose life you put in danger. That's all." I sighed to myself and shook my head as I traveled down the hall to straighten the bathroom. "Excellent, just excellent. You're talking to yourself."

I sighed when I reached the doorway to guest bathroom, its lemon-colored walls cheery despite the gloomy fog that had rolled in from Gotham Bay. I flipped the light switch and got to work putting out fresh hand towels, wiping up the sink and counter—even though it was already spotless—and decided it would be a good idea to give the toilet bowl a good scrubbing. Lifting the closed lid, I discovered the indisputable shine of the pure white porcelain and decided to forgo cleaning it. Although, I hadn't yet finished my sweep of the bathroom and resigned myself to giving the shower a once-over, examining the floors for any sign of dirt, and double-checking that the towels I had recently hung were, in fact, fresh-from-the-laundry clean.

"You're mental, Cassandra," I sighed to myself as I turned off the light and headed down the hall towards my bedroom. It was a mess. "Well," I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the room for a damage assessment, "if he wants a tour, you'll be caught by surprise. You might as well tidy it up in here too."

While I gathered clothes from the floor and made my bed, my mind got to work telling me all the ways that I was completely in over my head. Here I was, fired from a job—_you don't know that_— inviting a man I hardly knew over to my silly little apartment, half-drunk. And I was cleaning up my bedroom so it would be presentable for him. If only I could take a step back and see what had become of myself. I almost wished I had been cleaning the apartment for Waylon-

"Ok, no, you can shut the fuck up," I said to myself as I finished in the master bath and returned to the kitchen. "I'll give you leeway to talk to yourself, but fantasizing about Waylon is completely out."

I shook my head and leaned against the counter, sighing. Now, all I could do was wait for Collins to arrive and see what fucked up choices I made next.

_Fantastic._

* * *

><p><strong>Long time no see! (or update!) Sort of a low-key chapter seeing as the previous ones have been so crazy.<br>**

**Let me know what you think!**

**-Soule Rellim**


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